who?
fourteenth september | two ante meridiem
...Santa Cruz to Salinas to Monterrey to Big Sur to San Luis Obispo to the Santa Ynez Valley to Malibu to LA to...
September 10 | eight pm
Yesterday was such a waste. The skies above SF were low and even and gray - exactly like Washington. I went to the graveyard at Mission Dolores, then waited around in the drizzling rain that had started to fall for Eggers' pirate store to open. It was supposed to at 12, but when 12:05 came and they still hadn't unlocked the gates I thought WTF am I even doing getting wet waiting for a kitsch vanity project owned by an author I don't even like that much to open? So I left (sorry Edith): packed up my stuff, got my car out of the garage and drove off without even having lunch or filling up on gas - mistakes, both. The traffic getting out of SF was horrendous. Traffic jams on the 101 followed by slow-moving lines climbing the steep and narrow curves of the 17. With each turn the gas gauge would dip below E and the warning light would come on. By this time I was starving and generally in a foul mood on top of my fuel-fueled anxiety. Almost and hour and a half later I reached Santa Cruz on fumes. I'd been there before about four years ago to hang out and go to some Halloween parties at the college. I liked the town a lot; relaxed and college-y with sea salt air and full of improbable eye candy creatures that seemed to have crawled out of the surf. I sat in a park downtown eating a falafel that only made my stomach hurt, trying to plan what to do next. It was now past 3 and I realized that if I wanted to hang out any longer in Santa Cruz I'd probably have to stay the night. In my still grumpy state I couldn't accept SF to SC being an entire day's journey, so I left.
It was just short of Monterrey that I realized I'd have to stop or else negotiate Hwy 1 in the dark all the way to Morrow Bay, since accomodations in Big Sur are rare and beyond pricey. Monterrey is also lacking in cheap motels, so I drove inland a bit to Salinas, the lettuce capital of the world and birthplace of John Steinbeck. I stayed in a very Barton Fink place, and since the Washingtonian gray skies and rain had followed me all day, I did what I was used to doing in Washington: watched Law & Order and fell asleep early.
This morning I went to the Steinbeck museum, which was expensive and really stupid. Aside from the camper he drove around the country for Travels With Charley, there was nothing that had actually been his: just a lot of period recreations and crappy "interactive" displays hung with Out Of Order signs. I loved Steinbeck when I was 15, and his sweeping sentimentality still has sentimental value for me, but this was shit.
Again I left town without eating. I thought it'd be good to stop in Monterrey for lunch, so I could finally see the ocean and maybe go to the aquarium. This time I had good falafel in a little middle eastern grocery, but Cannery Row was so grossly touristy, and the aquarium so grossly expensive, that I left abruptly, again.
This time it was a great decision. Today was gorgeous, and as soon as I got out of town on the 1 for the first time I thought HOLY FUCK I'M ON A ROAD TRIP and my emotions soared. I cranked up the Grateful Dead, for fuck's sake! All the unpanoramic photos and overheated rhetoric in the world can't spoil how truly madly deeply beautiful Big Sur is on first impression. Rolling hills lopped off into cliffs which fall directly into the surf that edges a sparkly green mirror that stretches all the way to Japan. There are turn-outs every 100 or so yards, and at first I stopped at almost all of them. Eventually I just held the camera ready in my lap and snapped photos from the moving vehicle. At the turn-outs I kept seeing these car commercial couples: early 30-somethings with conservative haircuts and perfect bodies and bland clothes, posing outside their gleaming Jettas. After a few hours of occasionally FREAKISHLY SCARY driving, I drove up to the visitor's center at the Hearst Castle. It's another depressing tourist corral, but my loyalty to rich freaks and west coast tastelessness told me I should see it anyway. I joined the international throngs who'd just disembarked from large touring coaches in a large touring coach and we drove up the merely sort-of scary winding five mile driveway. The view from the top was incredible, and the neptune pool was cool, but otherwise I was reminded too much of the dullness of the few Grande Estate tours I took in Europe (and despite its size and opulence, the place is a little shabby). Eventually they prodded us back on the bus then let us go.
Back on the road I felt so good I thought dude, tonight I'll camp! In case I haven't made this abundantly clear already, I like looking at nature, but I don't really like being in it. The only reason I brought a tent is that camping is generally cheaper than motels and I thought doing something atypical and vaguely daring would be good for me. I stopped at a store for peanut butter, doughnuts and baby wipes, then drove to Morrow Bay State Park.
I'd forgotten how depressing camp sites can be. Even though I could see the sun going down over a beautiful beach just a quarter mile away, the camp itself was dusty and shadowed by scraggly trees with 8,000,000,000 chirping SCREAMING birds, and everyone looked frumpy and drugged and old. I parked in a site, then went back to the check-in station to pay. The price was $16 and you were supposed to put the money in an envelope with some information to be filled out on it, then slip the whole thing through a slot. There were no envelopes left, and the only bill I had on me was a 20. There were no envelopes in my car, and I didn't feel like overpaying the park for the privilege of sleeping on packed dirt and crapping in a filthy toilet and showering in a grimy cell you had to feed quarters into: in any sane world you would be compensated for this, heavily. I walked back to the car trying to think of what to do, when I noticed someone had written TAKEN in the dirt of my spot with a huge X below it. This anarchy was too much for me, so I left.
So I'm in San Luis Obispo, in my third cheap 'n' skeezy motel, though this one lacks the creepy Barton Fink charm. I'm still within the budget I set for myself, but I feel guilty in other ways, like I chickened out of something, or just generally haven't made this the WILD AND CRRRRAAAAZZZY ADVENTURE!!! it should be. I still haven't found (or invented) that Mission yet.
September 11 | ten pm
Wow, I had no idea today was that day until just now.
I had A Moment when I first left. I brought a couple Case Logics full of CDs, and I opened one randomly to find something to start the trip with. Improbably (though not inappropriately) what turned up was the last U2 album. I love "Beautiful Day"; I'm not a fan but I think it's their second best song ever. Anyway, it kicked in just as I accelerated up the freeway, and the full import of leaving hit me (my parents sold their beautiful rural house a few days before I left - the one I lived in from 2 to 18, then for the last year - so the next time I visit it will be to a condo in a gated community WTF?!) and I broke down. It only occurred to me today that the lyric which really hit home: "You're on the road / But you've got no destination" is typical U2: a random phrase indicating something vague about ROCK AND ROLL and FREEDOM strung together with other random phrases indicating more of the same (with some evangelical xian shit thrown in as well). The phrase describes my real life situation, but as an idea it's a cliche even Bono can grasp. On The Road and Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas are relics: travel in America now is better characterized by the business traveler and the vacationer. The flaneur principle of drift is tres difficile when you're driving. Leaning too much on the peregrinatory aspect of this trip is, I think, probably a poor way to try to extract meaning from it. What that leaves, I'm not sure.
Drove down to Pismo Beach to lay in the sun with the rest of the old and decrepit in California ("decrepit" is only half right: you wouldn't believe [or maybe you would, in which case I'd worry about you] how many seniors I saw doing Tai Chi. haha remember when Angel used to do Tai Chi on Buffy? He's a vampire! No breath! No pulse! WTF?!). Old people look fucking BAD ASS when they're bronzed as Buddha. Got terribly burned and dehydrated in four hours (I just spent five days in the Nevada desert WTF?!). Slept it off at the motel then went to the Farmer's Market/Street Party/Teenage Mating Ritual SLO features on Thursday nights. Had some raw authorial experiences: a group of teenage boys who turned and followed an 8 year old with their eyes while making lewd comments; a nasty breakup between two drunk 16 year olds; some more surfer talk (following on from the beach). I managed to position myself unnoticed (or at least ignored) just outside a circle of about 10 teenage males while they discussed amusing teenage male shit. Subtly harassed the poor people at the Kucinich For Prez booth (I like K. and have no problem with him being in the race, but come on: he's Nader Lite and thus deserves some shit) (oh, and I stopped off at a few bars on the way, which is surely to blame for my poor behavior). Arrived back at the motel in time to chat with Eyez about psychic cats.
Mim kept telling me she was crazy, mentally unbalanced, going through a tough time, hating herself, trying not to kill herself when she woke up each morning, as if that was going to put me off. Every girl I've had a serious relationship has been severely unstable, I replied: one nearly overdosed on painkillers only a few weeks after we started going out. Not that I expect too much; we both know it can't last back in real time, when the desert dust is washed away. Speaking of vampires: I feed too greedily off the vitality of those I devour. We were fucking on different emotional planes and I wasn't about to accept that.
September 12 | eleven pm
In Hollywood. Had planned to spend another day on the coast, but my sunburn meant no more beaches, and there's not much else to do there. Found a reasonably priced place on Hollywood Blvd that isn't at all divey. John Ritter's star is on my block; I noticed because all the flowers and camera crews were a huge pain in the ass to walk around. I don't see what the big deal is: he sucked as a psycho android on Buffy. What else is there?
Had a great time this afternoon wandering up and down Hollywood and Sunset, soaking up the energy, getting my city legs back. Despite the sprawl - or maybe because of it, I don't know - LA feels like much more of a metropolis than SF. It has an intensity I haven't experienced anywhere else except London and Berlin (not Paris, not Vancouver, and sure as fuck not Seattle). Even the touristy areas are vibrant and colorful and grimy. Taxied through Echo Park and Silverlake just a few minutes ago, and the streets were madness: every genus and species of humankind clogging the sidewalks and mingling with the traffic. There were barbecues with music and dancing in the parking lots of local groceries. I'd been to a Dodgers game; sat up in the cheap seats with the lumpen proles and their prolettes, each a speck in a sea of blue. The guys behind me were highly entertaining cheerleaders/hecklers: always on, joking, punning, teasing, hollering, pattering a mile a minute. I was sad when they left in the seventh inning to buy beer and never came back. There was a family in front of me with three small children, each cuter than the last. Their dad was a diminutive Latino with a very Chinesey Fu Manchu and boundless energy. He never stopped playing, roughhousing, snuggling with his kids, all while enthusiastically cheering every play. The mom sat silent and Buddhaesque in her bulk at the end of the row, smiling benignly at everything, rarely saying a word. Just watching them made me so happy, I'm upset now that I didn't try to sneak a picture.
A very good day. LA always excites me like this, and starting tomorrow I get to share it with friends (happy happy joy joy).
September 14 | one thirty am
...and down to earth with a plonk. Hollywood is so boring on a Saturday morning. I foolishly parked in an all day lot after checking out of my hotel, then realized there was nothing in the area I could walk to - not even a cafe - except Amoeba, where I spent about an hour. Browsing the horror DVDs was highly entertaining; so many insane films with covers and titles I'd never heard of, the best being Thou Shalt Not Kill... Except.... Unfortunately, there were still five hours until Eyez got off work. I roamed aimlessly for a bit, reinflaming a couple of my blisters left over from Burning Man, before showing up at her office early, exhausted, sweaty, spacey and in a semi-grumpy mood. My mood swings since coming back from BM have increased hugely, which I'm a bit frightened by. Eventually things evened out; I felt better and Eyez's weekend was just starting; so naturally we went to see Thirteen. It was good, but after Kids, Gummo, etc, just not that unsettling, ya know? It made me want to call Maenad, who's middle school years weren't too different, though minus the poverty (oh, and it was filmed at Eyez's middle school!). Ate pizza and an entire garden on a plate afterwards at some space themed restaurant in a Jewish neighborhood south of Melrose. Now I'm at her house, being unsocial while everyone else plays Vice City. Tomorrow: Long Beach and tattoos (though not for me). This is all a bit rushed; it's late and I'm tired, and I've had other thoughts about this trip and various other things which aren't exclusively focused on ME ME ME, but they'll have to wait until next time.
Goodnight.