Half Past Awesome

Close Enough

Day 3 of the Super Incredibly Fantastic Special Extra Happy Trip Of 2011 consisted of taking in a concert. Not just any old concert, mind you, but one I’ve been anticipating with the drool of a starving dog in a steakhouse. We’re talking Mumford & Sons, a barely-four-year-old band that everyone declares to have heard of first, thereby infusing that hipster element into otherwise good music. Myself, I was turned on to them by El Jefe, a man who’s musical tastes run the gamut and who’s opinion I respect.

My brother Buns was able to procure tickets because, like the character Red in Shawshank Redemption, he’s the kind of man who knows how to get things; his silver tongue works magic, enough that he once met me at the gate of my arriving flight with Starbucks in hand, thereby violating just about every TSA rule imaginable. But I digress. This concert was the crux of my trip out to California, and the first time I’d set foot in the Santa Barbara County Bowl since some time in the early 90′s, probably to catch a Steel Pulse concert or something along those lines. Again with the digressing (note to self: up the ADD meds by three or four pots a day).

His friend having the quintessential bachelor pad within walking distance of The Bowl ensured that the pre-concert get-together would be sponsored by a vodka of indeterminate origin and lots of it. This compounded the issues of hiking up to the venue itself, a fantastic lovechild of perfect musical platform and stunning setting. We skipped the opening act in favor of standing in line for some decent enough beers and the usual jostling and splashing and wondering why some people bring their small children to such events.

And that turned out to be perfect, at least for me.

I was there to see Mumford & Sons, not The World’s Tallest Band (opening act), talented though they may be. After some shuffling and milling about, complete with Sound Check Guy who needed to make pretty much a damn scene out of his last minute duties, the boys strolled out, and jumped right in. And I mean JUMPED RIGHT IN. You know how there are certain acts you see where you’re thinking “man, this is okay, but really, I’m good just listening to the recorded version of —-”? Let’s be frank…no one comes away from a Britney Spears concert and ready to prattle on about her musical talents. Lip synching and gyrational dirty hooker dancing skills aside, of course. Such was not the case with these British lads.

They tore into their set, and yes I just called them lads since they’re about a decade younger than I, with the vigor and vinegar of men possessed. Musicianship, tragically beautiful lyrics and a fire unleashed all came together in a furious moment, as though we’re watching the tornado actually touch down in the trailer park. EVERYone in the crowd knew the lyrics, EVERYone was belting them out in hackneyed attempts at British accents, EVERYone seemed to be bouncing up and down in rhythm to the percussive music that was, to continue the bad analogy, sweeping us all up in its path. At the risk of being labeled a dirty hippie by my family, the energy that enveloped the entire show was contagious from beginning to end. I found myself beaming like an idiot, the sonic waves crashing into us and making us happy and peaceful and joyously riotous all at once.

Of course, as I read that last sentence, I realize what an idiot I sound like, but truly, that’s how it felt. I’ll never go to a Britney Spears concert, the good Lord willing, and as we get older and opportunities to experience this kind of communal groundswell of musical energy lessen, I’m thankful for those rare occasions to watch and experience young masters at their craft. They unleashed some new numbers, including one called “My Lover’s Eyes” that was, surprisingly (for a first hearing of a new song), already perfect. These guy were that good. To think they do this night after night, town after town, lends even more respect to what it must take to deliver such creative output; to witness them pouring their souls out like that was quite the moving experience.

Do yourself a favor: go out and buy Sigh No More, their album and give it a listen…it’s pretty damn good. Then, go see them in concert. It’ll change the way you think about how a concert should be put on by real musicians. Do this with a good beer and good people and that? Will make for one hell of a good night.

Good Times Had By All

I’m on the road currently. The ostensible reasons are to get out of Springfield, catch a great concert with my brother, recharge my batteries for another couple rounds in the firehouse and lastly, general tomfoolery. All still going to plan, too. I spent an evening at the local watering hole of my hometown, The Old Cayucos Tavern, catching up with people I’ve not seen in a dozen years or more. It’s always good to know that over time nothing too much changes, except that everyone seems to have kids and jail time under their belts to show for it. Someone is now a commercial fisherman in Alaska, some are working, some are fighting, many broken promises being argued about over the sound of a great band,  a band much better than the raucous trash that used to play there when I was a kid sneaking into the joint. All the small town drama is still in full swing, bikers and surfers and ranchers and truckers all living life in a jilted awkward dance set to the rhythm of life in a sleepy beach town.

And while it’s always good to check the ties that bind you to your youth, I’ve also spent time engaged in an act that I’ve neglected for far too long. This trip has been marked with miles on the road checking in with family, blood and otherwise. My mom’s sister, who I’ve not seen in twelve years, recently moved to California to be close to family, so I popped in unannounced, seeing if I could give her a heart attack by ambush visiting her. She’s a delightful and kind soul who spent her younger years getting arrested for protesting acts of animal cruelty, then proudly mailing me the newspaper clippings of her being led off after chaining herself to a mule diving platform. Now she’s toddling around an assisted care facility, walker at the ready, eyes still alive and vibrant with an independent spirit that I recognize.

I also pounded some Central Valley miles out to check in with my grandparents, something that is a bit of a ritual to me now. The parents of my stepfather are old-school farmers, no-nonsense people who raised a large family in Bakersfield and don’t suffer fools lightly. There’s no time for that when you’re carving a life out of the fertile desert floor, and yet despite their stern demeanor that I remember so well, there is an abundance of love in their hearts for family. Grandpa served in the military in WWII, and those years are the subject of our conversations, limited as they are. I’m just grateful, I suppose, not only for his service, but for their accepting me into the family when I was a confused kid, desperate for a place to fit in with my new family. In their nineties now, it’s with a melancholy heart that I realize our short visits won’t be going on too much longer;  in those moments, I’m trying to memorize all the details, never forgetting to let them know that I love them before I leave. I’m sure this verbal acknowledgment, while foreign to a generation of tough men and strong women, falls upon their ears and makes them smile, even if a little.

I also drove up to Cambria to visit my mom while she was at her quilting retreat, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a half dozen ladies chirping about and creating beautiful pieces of art for loved ones. They were wearing their pink Springfield Fire Department tee shirts, purchased last year as a collective effort to contribute to raise money for breast cancer awareness. Mom no doubt coordinated the wardrobe for the day I’d visit, a sweet effort from a sweet woman, embarrassed as she is to have brought me into this world. She still refuses to believe I have a tattoo, a point she made to me and anyone else in earshot, and that’s okay, too. As she was explaining to me just how disgusting I would look as an old man with saggy ink, and I was telling her I had no plans on getting old, I had to smile. My mom & I, my earliest ally in this world, the one who has tolerated me from the get go, lecturing a 36 year old me on my behavior. I missed that. She was more than happy to point out my flaws, and I loved it.

Finally, I visited Steve and Joanie, old friends from way back in the day, surrogate parents to a younger, cockier me. I wrote about Steve quite a while back (read here) and, as ever, it was good to be in their embrace, to feel the genuine love that comes from people who you love you despite yourself. I miss them greatly, and as I walked through their house, marveling at Steve’s impeccable style and skill with woodwork, I felt at peace, at home. I got in some meals with my stepdad and uncle, mentally taking me back to a time when they were aggressive framers and builders, catching their coffee at Skippers in the morning fog before strapping on their toolbelts and creating homes of immaculate precision. RoJo and family came up for an afternoon, and to see his son growing up in his image is shocking, indeed. I couldn’t be a more proud psuedo-uncle.

So, that was the first two days. Two days of a mad rush, hoping to cram in time with those I need to recognize more often. Family. That’s the thing.

You Get The Idea

It’s all shades of gray, really. Often-times folks from the coastal community ask me how in the world you could stand to live in the Ozarks, home of cousin-fornication and three teeth per capita. People in the Ozarks ask how could someone stand to live in California, home of such insane luminaries as San Fran Gran Nan Pelosi and 800 square foot homes that retail for $800,000. Both sides are correct, of course. And both are horribly mistaken.

I have no cousins here in the Midwest, so I suppose that option is out. I have all my teeth and an affordable mortgage on some acreage. I love the coast, and grew up living there, despite the cost of living and without bestowing voting rights on my goldfish. The humidity here sucks, the cost there sucks. The seafood there is fresh and plentiful and here people seem to have a concern for others beyond the bare narcissistic minimums. And they have Starbucks in both locations.

One place I don’t know if I could ever really adjust to is the desert locales through which I-40 rambles from here to there. NOTHING is out there. If dirt and lizards are your thing, you’ll not be disappointed, but I was struck how lonesome and desolate most of the communities are along the way. People who lived along the corridor displayed an affinity for gathering old buses, trailers, busted minutiae and detritus they could scatter around their dwellings. It seems like an awfully hardscrabble way to make it through life. No greenery, no trees, no rain, nothing but bitter dust and wind always, the wind. When population monitors screech like howler monkeys about the number of people on this planet, I often wonder if they’ve ever been out in New Mexico or Arizona and gazed into the desolation. I’m pretty sure Mars has better lawns.

I have several friends who love to travel to the desert. These are people who, in my opinion, need to be institutionalized. Brewing soup in my shorts while admiring rocks and far-off mesas seems catastrophic at best. I’ve come to love the wild swings in weather we have out here in Missouri, if for no other reason than they parallel the inconsistency with which I approach each day. To know that tomorrow’s forecast will be “hot, again. Hot and dry. Really, really, really hot and exceptionally dry, to be honest” is akin to a death sentence of monotony.

My hyper-caffeinated brain needs constant short-attention span stimulation, whereas the desert highways are a lesson in long sessions of isolated monotony. This might work if I was a Buddhist trying to calm my soul, but the fact remains that I function in a different shade of gray. So a trip across the high plains with me is a spectacle of watching me thrash around the cab of the car, mumbling and rambling and throwing items all over. Spazing my way across I-40, that’s how my family witnessed it.

We really should do this vacation thing more often.

Old Friends Picking Old Tunes

“CALIFORNIA WOULD BE A GREAT PLACE TO LIVE IF IT WEREN’T FOR THE CALIFORNIANS.“  -Dirtbag (a native of the S.F. Bay area and current resident of Washington State)

Top 10 Highlights From California

1. Best Truck Stop Name I Found - “Jesus Christ Is Lord Not A Swear Word Truck & Travel Plaza”
2. Best Aspect About Barbara’s Wedding - whole thing took less than five minutes. Seriously, we drove 1857 miles one way for that? I didn’t even get a chance to finish the cocktail I’d purchased to make it through the ceremony. Plus they walked down the aisle to punk. My family is classy like that.
3. Second Best Aspect Of Wedding – blood spatter on Nan’s tux vest at the reception as a result of some clown being paid a visit by Nan’s fists  “because he needed it”.
4. Best Moment In Cayucos – jamming with old friends in the Old Boradorri Garage (best place in town) and keeping it to ourselves. Good because it was like sharing old secrets, better because no one heard how awfully I sing and play guitar. Safe to say Rodrigo y Gabriela won’t be calling me to play for them in the near future.
5. Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Well, you’re not so fat this time.” (first line upon seeing me)
6. Second Best Line (By Aunt Viper) – “Boys, remember, I love you very much, all the time. Your father, not so much.” (to The Heathens)
7. Best Part Of Disneyland – hacking, coughing and looking like enough of a psychopath that most people avoided me. I’m not so down with crowds and crowding, so it all worked out. That, and the boys had a great time riding vomit inducing attractions while I drank coffee and glared at people.
8. Biggest Difference Between California & The Ozarks – try saying “hello” to someone walking down the beach and they look at you as though you’ve just suggested you have sex with cats recreationally. People there are too busy to be bothered with such trivialities, I suppose. You are there to be seen, not talked to.
9. Best Part Of Being Home – outside of family and friends? Had to be all the fresh fruits, vegetables and seafood. There’s nothing quite like homegrown, a fact lost on me growing up and now sorely missed.
10. Best Part Of The Trip - came home with a motorcycle and a new lease on idiocy. It’s great to be back. I’ve missed you guys. Promise to write more soon.

Nan, Chewie, Oma, Amanda & Barbara

One week from today, the entire Missouri wing of our clan is rolling west to California, road tripping in what will surely be come to known as “I-can’t-believe-we-thought-that-was-a-good-idea fest 2010“. I’ve made the drive a handful of times, most notably in a newly purchased Peterbilt with the Outlaw Trucker (back when I had an excavating “interest”) and with SeaBass (on a trip to gather up the Lyin’ Dutchman’s abandoned possessions when he left the country, saying he wasn’t ever coming back. Two weeks later, he was back, but that’s another story).

This trip will be the first time I attempt 26 hours in a vehicle with The Wife and The Heathens.

Someone may die.

Neck-wringing will be determined to be the cause.

So here’s the plan: we leave at 3am, this way I can get at least 4-5 hours of solid, uninterrupted driving time. Time in which I get to pick the music (even if it is in ear buds), time where I can drive without constant “advice” from the passenger seat. Time without questions and pesky little voices declaring war on one another over Spongebob.

It’ll be the smoothest part of the trip, no doubt.

Chewie On What Shall Soon Be Mine

The reason we’re heading out there? Supposedly my brother Barbara is getting married, to a lovely girl named Amanda, and we’re going. I feel sorry for her, she seems so nice, and Barbara is such a, well, a Barbara. He’s actually extremely intelligent, but he doesn’t want anyone to know this, so he never displays this trait. He’s kind, but he’s my brother, so I refuse to acknowledge this fact, preferring instead to harangue him mercilessly online and to his face. I’m proud of him for becoming the man he has, but don’t tell him this, you’ll ruin our rapport. THIS is why I’m enduring a road trip with all the appeal of The Exodus.

But not really.

In an unusual alignment of the moons, it turns out my other brother Chewie is selling his motorcycle. To me.  What better way to get it back to Missouri from California than to be attending a wedding out there? Who better to buy a motorcycle from than my own brother? How perfect is it that he’s selling EXACTLY what I want? This logic is nearly flawless in my eyes. Not so much in The Wife’s or anyone who cares about “surviving”, but what do they know? This whole wedding affair is getting so many earmarks, I’m making politicians look like amateur pork-barrelers. The Wife has talked me into hauling the family down to Disneyland so that my boys can experience that whole hobnobshebob. Any objection I raise? “Motorcycle. You’re getting a motorcycle, so you just shut your face.” Can’t argue with that. In a little more than seven days, I’ll have my nasty, filthy hands on a bike. AFTER ALL THIS TIME! The road trips with El Jefe have already been plotted, I’ve already started a motorcycle gang, I’ve already pissed off my wife – this is just the natural progression of things.

I just gotta get the thing back here without choking the crap out of my family in the process. One week. ONE WEEK AND LIFE AS I KNOW IT CHANGES! YES! YES! YES! VICTORY IS ON THE HORIZON, BOYS!!

Barbara may feel the same way, although for different reasons, I suppose. Just give it a few years, a couple of kids and he too, will salivate at the thought of freedom on two wheels. Maybe he’ll give me a call, looking for a motorcycle.

That sounds like a road trip.

The Real Reason For The Season

Year round, but never more frequently than now, I have a secret lust for an accent. There’s nothing inherently intriguing about American speech, minus the fascination I have with the Bostonian brogue. I used to like southern twang until I discovered that often it’s symbolic of illiterate trash (not always though….you can’t go wrong with the sweet lilting murmur of a Mississippi belle.) Californian accents are often mocked and mistaken as the language of the stoned slacker. The upper Midwest harbors the clipped and amusing speech of Norse descent that reminds me of gelled fish, polka and hot casserole dishes. And Sarah Palin’s is complete bullshit. I’ve lived in Wasilla and hers is the weirdest mix of North Dakotan-Western Canadian I’ve ever heard.

When I was younger and obsessed with the Rastafarian culture and music, I thought that there was little more impressive than island patois. British accents, varied as they are distinguishable, always make someone seem smarter (unless you happen to be Madonna; ps- you’re from MICHIGAN). Italian and Spanish accents have the undeniable quality that the speaker is trying to get in your pants. Russians and Germans sound harsh and foreboding…. as though your misery is their end goal. Many middle eastern dialects sound as though you’re getting screamed at and moments away from a violent confrontation. (As an addendum, don’t go and get your panties all bunched up over the thought that I’m generalizing here, or, Allah forbid, stereotyping. I’m not. Okay, I am. Either way, you’re already offended, so what’s the point?)

But nothing has the appeal of the Irish (and Scottish) brogue. To me, they speak of a peoples forged in hardship and adversity; people with a deep and abiding love of beer. No matter the topic, when someone talks to me in a Celtic tone, I instantly feel a working-class bond with that person, even if they’re philanthropic socialites who hang in The Hamptons. Weird, yes. Maybe it’s because we’re working in a blue collar environment. Maybe it’s my love of Guinness. Maybe it’s the tradition (in other cities) of the Irish in the fire service. Maybe it’s because I find the lead singer of the band Garbage alluring.

Any way you look at it, there’s an inherently bad-ass quality to their language. And there’s nothing less alluring than people trying to emulate it, especially those who are terrible at accents. So my promise to you is that I won’t attempt one in your company. Never was this point better driven home than while in Kansas City last weekend to attend a Flogging Molly concert with my amigo Owings (which was fortunate enough to have as an mc THE brewmaster of Guinness. What a gig THAT guy has). While standing in line to get into the theatre, we witnessed some skinny-jeaned poseur trying to impress his date with an Irish accent that sounded like a bad imitation of the Lucky Charms cartoon character; it really was that awful.  And he wasn’t quoting something, he was talking as though that were his everyday voice. Maybe they met on the internet. Maybe she was deaf. Maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental.

It would likely be best to leave the accents to those who own them. That, and people like RoJo, a redhead with the last name “Kelly”. I think he qualifies to fake it if necessary. All I can legitimately claim as linguistically inherited is the insane Dutch-Indonesian hybrid ranting accent of The Lyin’ Dutchman and Aunt Viper.

Oy vey.

SORT of looks like Aunt Viper

The last couple of days spent on this trip went by in a seeming blur, no doubt influenced by a desire to return to the barn and seasoned with liberal amounts of imbibing. My visits with The Author and RoJo’s family were complimented by an unexpected visit to Aunt Viper. Aunt Viper is The Lyin’ Dutchman’s sister, and, much to her chagrin, she was given the moniker by none other than her own brother, my father. I believe the sentence went something like this: “I tell you what, Ool, that woman is a goddamn viper.” This is the way the crazy wing of the family relates to one another.

Aunt Viper and I haven’t spoken in nearly nine months, ever since The Lyin’ Dutchman’s latest flight into lunacy involved blaming my brothers and I for the implosion of his marriage. When told of such accusations, Aunt Viper had a classic response: “THIS IS WHAT WE DO! We hurt the ones we love when we hurt!” In my book, that’s called ridiculous and I told her as much. There was much yelling involved, and Aunt Viper ended the argument in her typical fashion; she told me to have no further contact with her ever again, seeing as how she now considered me dead to her. This was followed by a ritual slamming down of the phone from her end. Totally standard operating procedure.

I dropped in on her at her office and her first words when she saw me were “Well, well, well……look who’s back.” This was followed by several clucks and a small hug;  then, as she patted me these words of endearment came spilling from her mouth… “Christ, Ool, you’re getting fat.” Sigh. She then led me by the ear as I’d refused to got get some lunch “on her tab” across the street and marched me into a deli where she promptly demanded that a tri-tip sandwich be made. She is of the school that if someone doesn’t understand her thick-as-mud accent, then she should just shout her demands; her favorite target of such tirades is anyone of Mexican decent. No one raises her hackles so completely like the Latinos – she just can’t hate them enough. As I ate half of a sandwich, I asked her if she and her office-mates ate the same thing when they came here. She told me, no, they do not, because it’s too fattening. “Perfect for you, though, Ool. Tell me, are you curling your hair now? What the hell are you doing with your hair?” I informed her that no, this fat boy was indeed, NOT, curling his hair. She dismissed this as an outright lie and intimated that maybe her suspicions about my sexuality were more accurate than I’d care to admit. Despite my having a lovely wife, kids and a propensity for the opposite sex, Aunt Viper thinks most men are nothing more than closeted homosexuals. My opinion is that this is a line of defense she employs when people get too nosy about her spinster status. I tell her as much and she informs me that I have no idea what I’m talking about, as usual. Family.

I arrived this morning at o’dark thirty at LAX to head home (Thanks to RoJo and Amy for their hospitality!) and was greeted by the most hostile ticket agent in the L.A. Basin. When I came up to her counter and said “Good morning, how are ya?”, she just stared at me and slowly picked up the p.a. loudspeaker, angrily announcing “Ladies and gentlemen, when you come up to the ticket counter, you must have your I.D. ready, this will make the process go much more smoothly.” Turns out my I.D. was in my other hand, but I was too busy trying to be all friendly for her liking. I then slapped the plastic card on her counter and made some remark about how some folks just aren’t morning people. She responded by seating me at the back of the plane near a toilet. Score one for the asshole airline employee.

I then met the same customer service etiquette when dealing with the T.S.A. of L.A. They don’t want to be told “Hello!” They want I.D. and they want nothing more. In an ironic twist, there was someone sitting in my seat, and when we compared boarding passes, we were both assigned seat 31D. This counter agent was nothing, if not relentless. I then noticed the guy occupying my seat had, as his name on the pass, my exact name. It then occurred to me that perhaps my sadistic counter agent fell a little in love with me, and was surly as a response to her magnetic attraction to me. She couldn’t get me off her mind, so she kept typing Ulrich Gulje on her computer and assigning groups of people to sit on my lap. I could see that our relationship was going to be tumultuous from the start. In other words, a typical Los Angeles love affair, where mutual hatred was the primary attraction. Score one for the hopeless romantic.

As the plane descended from its cruising altitude and we dipped below the cloud line, I recognized the December hinterlands of the Ozarks coming into view. If California is, in the words of my Rogersville neighbor “the land of fruits and nuts”, then Missouri is the section of the freezer that is in desperate need of a defrosting. People are iced over, there’s no snow to speak of, and there’s a pretty good chance there’s freezer burn on our asses.

The family unit was waiting at the curb, both Heathens eager to tell on one another and pretend they missed me. The Wife seemed glad to see me, and in that moment, I knew that I’d have to end my dangerous relationship with the ticket agent. I don’t think she’d fit in too well here in the freezer section.

Two firsts for me on this trip home:

1.) I rode a scooter all around town. I felt supremely emasculated on the thing, but I’m not so ashamed that I’d deny how fun it was. Even in the rain.

2.) I took said scooter up into hills of Santa Barbara and went to my childhood home site, the home having been a victim of the Jesusita Fire earlier this spring. (Picture on the right was taken near our old place)

I was interested in seeing what the effect was of seeing my own home site as nothing more than an empty lot. Having been in the fire service for more than a decade, I wondered even if it could jack me up, or would it just be another former home? I did a couple loops around the old hood, tracing old trails to and from our house. When the scooter finally wheezed it up the last hill to the house, it was a curious and new emotion. I wasn’t distraught or “left with a hole in my soul” or any such silliness. It had been almost twenty years since I’d last set foot on the property, since the subsequent owners of the place liked their privacy enforced by a gate. And like a slide show, different scenarios from my childhood played out over the old foundation. It seemed so much smaller, the entire property, not to mention the footprint of the actual house. In my memory the place was huge, a fortress on a hill, a fortress with lots of wood floors and encapsulated in Lincoln Towncar-sized windows. Now the size of the driveway was no more remarkable than the size of the mailbox: spectacularly average. The Christmas tree we planted in the early 80′s was one of a few left on the property, and while I smiled at the memory, I felt no urge to throw my arms around it and weep like a distraught lunatic.

Most of the property was wandered with filling in memories that I’d stored away, which is a better alternative than to be morose over the ghost of a house. Something then caught my eye as I was mentally recreating my former bathroom’s location. I stood up from where I’d been squatting (what the hell? I don’t remember the imaginary toilet facing east. Weird) and saw the faint red outlines of string lines for setting up the stud-walls where mom’s old closet was. Since I knew my stepdad had built the additions to the home, I knew they had to be the actual lines set up by the man who’d raised me. And despite the passage of all the time, the hideous outdoor landscaping undertaken by subsequent owners and eventual firestorm destruction, there was the hallmark of a master craftsman that had endured it all. I still have a good relationship with my step father and can talk to him whenever the mood strikes, but nothing on the lot spoke to me like the hidden traces of a carpenters’ marks, precise and perfect in his signature work ethic. It was a familiar face and made me smile.

I hope the next people who choose to build on the site have it done by such a carpenter. It made for a solid childhood home, even if not exactly fire proof.

And then there was Los Angeles. Traditionally, I hate Los Angeles. I was raised to notice that the City of Angels has a bit of an issue when it comes to smog, crowds, traffic and a certain preponderance of assholes. L.A. is home to gang violence and pretentious boobs. Nothing good, save The Dodgers and Gwen Stefani, can come of such a hell hole of a town and in all the years of my youth, L.A. was to be avoided like the plague.

Fast forward twenty years and I’m riding in a Honda Element to Century City so that my friend, The Author, can make his latest pitch to the bigwigs; he and a partner have a concept for a television series. He’s got an appointment with the chain of command and I’ve been invited as a means of distraction on the drive from Santa Barbara. I’m more than happy to oblige. We cruise the 101 Southbound as he reveals the gist of his series, me trying to piece together all myriad factors, feeling rather the idiot.

When we get to the location where The Author is to meet his partner, they convene and promptly abandon me in a mall food court. Back in Springfield, Mo., I would find this to be a rather enjoyable experience – a couple of Buffalo wings later and I would spend the balance of time passing judgment on shoppers. But here, the options from the food court all came on actual china, with real silverware (not plastic, not sporks) and people treated the whole scene as though it were an official meal. I’m used to listening to kids screaming about their corn dogs’ deficiencies, not watching people dressed in nice clothes sipping on overpriced ramen noodles.  There is a gaggle of moms at a cluster of tables near me, and I pass the time listening to them declare the discovery of websites as though they were engaged in recreational atom splitting ~ “YES!! Diapers.com……I JUST found it the other day, and dahlings, I don’t know HOW I made without them to this point”. I choked on a noodle.

Before I got the opportunity to eavesdrop on the real housewives of Hollywood, though, I was struck by an overwhelming sentiment. I am a nasty, fat pud of an individual. While I may feel in relatively decent shape in good ol’ Missouri, within three minutes you feel like a Biggest Loser contestant in Los Angeles. And, truly, it sucks. The only way to combat said feelings of massive crappiness is to drink copious amounts of cocktails; if there’s a better booster of self-image, I’ve yet to discover it.

Maybe one hundred hours pass (or, more likely, two), and I’m out of my mind with people watching. What is The Author doing? How is his pitch going? Why did he insist on me waiting in a food court? I’m starting to put the pieces together when he shows up outside a book store and demands that we “drive around” until we get to a friends house. This statement has all the loose parameters of a poorly executed drive-by shooting. We end up at a friends’ house, a very nice guy who is in “the business”, and I am instantly enthralled. How does one get into “the business”? Is there a rite of passage akin to getting jumped into a gang? Yes, well, it turns out there is, and it involves the sale of your soul and dignity. I immediately want to sign up for this treatment.

The night rolls on and finds us in a bar called “The Red Rock” on the Sunset Strip, where we are joined by more people who work in the entertainment industry. I come to several brilliant conclusions, but unfortunately shots are being purchased in my name, with the caveat “here’s to the rube from the nether regions of The Ozarks”. I confidently accept these accolades and partake to the point that I’m rendered incapable of detail revelation. Suffice it to say that I sweepingly make several declarations that are met with rounds of drunken acknowledgment, followed up by their stories of illicit drug use and women of ill repute. I’m in awe.

Hours later, there are no illegal mind altering substances being snorted off of prostitutes’ thighs, and I loudly demand a refund. I am now a resident of the “Show-Me-State” and I demand proof. This leads to more accusations of moral turpitude, culminating in a manly declaration of love while overpriced drinks are being sloshed about the table. Hours later, I think on the conversation I engaged in, making sure that the behavior doesn’t mandate an apology letter – despite reprehensible behavior, one must not neglect the niceties.

A day later I find myself on I-5, heading to Bakersfield to pay a visit to my grandparents, mindful of the bi-polar actions of raging in Los Angeles one day and practicing your best manners in the central valley the next. I wish I could tell my grandparents of the crazy behavior in L.A., but most likely they would take that information and use it to catagorize me as the grandson “with issues”. I cannot have that. I maintain my best behavior, and as I’m sitting there peacefully devouring a patty melt from a roadside greasy spoon, I look over at my sweet and aging grandparents and feel a fulfilling sense of belonging. Apparently, they don’t seem to mind the company of a rube from the Ozarks.

Sarah Heads To A Book Signing In Santa Barbara

Notes from Santa Barbara, Day 2

• People act funny if you offer them assistance. While it’s completely normal to hold a door open for someone in the midwest, when you do it at the fancy grocery store here, strangers mistake you for an employee. I helped a woman reach some sugar from the top shelf of an aisle, and she said “Thank you so very much. That’s why I come here, the employees are just so nice.” I told her that I didn’t work there and she looked at me as though I had just stepped off another planet. I think she thought I was kidding.
• The shopping carts were deceivingly small at aforementioned store, and while I think it might be impossible to shop for more than a family of two with one of these carts, I also noticed a distinct lack of junk food.  This may well have tied into the distinct lack of morbidly obese people in sweatpants shopping there. I’ve never felt like such a worthless fat bastard.
• There was a mild rainstorm that blew through here yesterday, thereby sending local news outlets into gravitas-laden fits of predictions of doom. I loved it. Almost as much as I love the fact that in this town? Well heeled women wear high heeled rain boots. I didn’t even know they MADE such things. I know what The Wife is getting for Valentines Day next. (Didn’t you know about this problem I have? Read about it here)
• Go into a Border’s book store in Goleta, California, and then go into a Border’s book store in Springfield, Missouri. Same store, same corporate ownership, same layout (sort of) and guess what? Working on two totally separate worlds. In Springfield, people will line up for (literally) days when Sarah Palin comes to a book signing (albeit at a Barnes & Noble), and both chains feature her book, Glenn Beck’s loony tome and other assorted conservative pundits prominently. In Goleta they still have a large section devoted to Obama love anthems with titles like “Obamanos!” which appeal to the Hispanic Democrat in all of us. Of course, it’s marketing and product placement. Palin would no sooner come to sign books in Santa Barbara as wrestle Barbara Walters in a jello-filled inflatable pool; she prefers to go rogue on friendly turf.
• Speaking of bookstores, I went into a locally owned shop that carries really cool kids books, and I noticed that their cell-phone use policy is Draconian and clear. They hate cell phone being used in their shop, a fact that you can’t help but notice due to the half dozen signs stating this position. I can respect that, but there were a few obnoxious high-end ladies who felt that those rules did not apply to them. This led to the cashiers getting surlier and glaring at said ladies while pointing to the signs. This did not, in any way, slow down the mobile yakkers. I was happy to pay for the book and get out of there before the whole thing escalated into violence and the ladies ordered their assistants to attack. From their phones.
• Next up? A day trip down to L.A. with a good friend who happens to be an author. I told him I want to watch him “work”. I hope his version of work includes cocktails and bullshitting with others because that would absolutely cement my desire to write full time. I’ll let you know.