Nine Days In Cali By Pico
the photo set, enjoy!!
Ok. So, I should post something, blog a little, tell y’all about last week's trip to San Diego and California. I have to write a post that inspires vicious envy, the kind of post where you just kick yourself for not being there, filled with jokes, deadpan filth, and a moral code you just can’t quite put your finger on.
Basically, I want it to be the European Vacation monologue from Rules of Attraction – lovingly sent to me by Gully. Dora, baby, don’t worry, that’s the only part of that movie that I really love. The rest of it is background television.
Here goes. If you’d like more unvarnished truth, email me.
Took a flight on the aforementioned small plane. Fell asleep and woke up in Atlanta. Ate from a choice of 5 grease-pits serving breakfast, where Popeye’s wasn’t the greeziest one. I chose Checkers. Arrived in San Diego and eventually Heather and I figured out where we were. It was ridiculously warm. Ate a Mission Café burrito and went to a happy hour for Heather’s classmates who are nice kids. I forgot many names. Coast Guard Rob rolled in, we communed. We went to Pacific Beach, in local parlance “PB” and got our one-drink on.
Naked brand orange juice is great and now I am dedicated to spending too much money on it. Also, NYC bagels are also good. Two days before, Alana and I took a hella-long lunch and strolled (after a beer) to Ess-A-Bagel. I swear by H and H but that was too far and far. The bagels then went into my suitcase, left garlic-scented magic on my clothes, and into Heather’s refrigerator. Plus, college football at 9 am is the greatest thing ever. If I moved west it would be a definite reason.
We bike the Coronado and it's beautiful.
Gas lamp district. A bar in the Marriott over Drinks. Yankee fans/ NY Giants fans are everywhere for the Sunday game. We’re all confident that the Giants will slap around the inept Chargers.
Later, Morgan came and drove me to some back end of California. Scripps Ranch, maybe? Where we drank in the backyard, drank “around the world,” and I found myself talking to a young lady named Amanda. She is 20 and wanted to talk about music. Knowing how Silver needs some pictures for the lonely nights, I managed to snap one of her. There was a fire pit and pizza and it was kind of like a really good high school party—that’s a compliment. There is a really yappy guy who keeps talking about how he can walk into all black clubs—he produces music—and like DMX, be really good. I added the DMX part myself.
Owww. Andy (the guy whose parents own the Scripps Ranch house) wakes me up to give me his parents’ bed. I almost cuss him out until I realize he’s helping me. That’s a nice bed and I’ve been drinking water. I feel aces when I wake. Garrett and Bernard are awake. We talk sports, try not to wake that really yappy guy. Because 10 AM NFL is incredible… even if you can’t see your favorite local squadron.
I end up not going to the game but ending up in a hot tub with Heather’s friend and Heather. We eat, we watch the Giants get demolished, it was worse than “Cats.”
From the Amtrak train I can see the ocean stretched out before me; the hills are alive with subdevelopments. And the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim in Orange County of the State of California in the United States of America of the Northern Section of the American Continents on the 3 Planet Sol stadium is a few hundred yards from the Anaheim station.
The graffiti along the Los Angeles “River” leaves a little to be desired; haphazard and limp works next to respectable tags. I think there should be a City Commissioner of Tags who has authority to erase wack tags and arrest wack taggers. That of course would just end in a gang war… but it’s an idea, right? Right?
We hang out, walk around, have a bit too much sake and then eat at Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles. The biscuits were bangin’ and when we go back in May it’s all about a bake and a trip back to Roscoe’s. After dinner drinks at the Cat and the Fiddle to get the blood back in our limbs.
That was the biggest pastrami sandwich I’ve had since Katz’s. My grease/ cholesterol level is doubling as we speak. I take pictures of architecture for Niffer. I just found out that if I accidentally shift my finger one over in the middle of Niffer I come up with a word I don’t use much. Yes, it’s nidder. I think we sleep a lot. Order in dinner. Watch episodes of Firefly. Read. Watched Law and Order.
Big Wednesday… until I call my aunt when she’s 20 minutes late for breakfast and she tells me she’s looking around for my number to say she can’t come.
So we go to Santa Monica, the farmer’s market. Ate peaches. Walked to the long sand of Santa Monica’s beaches. Met his fellow grad Andy, a very smart guy who also loves his sports. Just like the rest of the week, we talk about the Red Sox’ prospects. Andy’s got a Silver-weak tummy so Joel and I go to Fatburger by ourselves. Mmm, fatburger.
And Wednesday is the big day I wasn’t telling Dora about… b/c Joel called his boy Josh and hooked us up with a tour of the OC Set. Top that, y’all. Henceforth—and he’d already held down this title—Joel is known as World’s Best Host. WBH Joel? He’s Seth Cohen’s alterego. My cell phone rings during the taping of a Sandy + Kiri scene. I feel like a tool but I have a mocking picture, suggested by Mitchell, our gracious tour guide.
And karaoke… Uh, picture explains it all. That’s me singing Bon Jovi’s Born to Be My Baby.
Irvine. It’s a long way down, baby. A long way. We rest at Joel’s pad, there are blueberries and raspberries and Special K and laziness and then… we drive and drive. Apparently Ross Perot bought a road and put a toll entrance on it. Does this officially make him a troll? Atusa’s house is beautiful and automated and our time there is chill. Her mother tries to make us fat. Joel and I are still svelte so it’s all good.
We eat breakfast by Wilshire, I think. The food was good but I was like… wait. We’re eating by a road that’s like Queens Blvd. LA ambiance, I guess. I should have taken a pic.
See Aunt Ivel, who is weak and arthritic and it hurts to see her like that. Almost makes me cry. Definitely makes me frustrated… at what? I don’t know.
I go to see Erin who I used to date in college. She’s still a funny kid, strong willed and with much longer hair, living with her boyfriend and his son. We go up Redondo Beach, we go up Hermosa Beach, we have the best damn mushroom burger I’ve had in my life.
I meet Dani later that evening and we see some solid ass rock bands, meet with Pavel and friends, go to a grimy dive bar that beats NYC bars hands down in street cred. People, we have GOT to filth our spots up if we’re gonna be the nation’s coolest city.
Sleeping at Dani’s, wake up for college football! We have yet another good ass breakfast and I go and meet my Aunt Faye. Her friend Thomas is great, we talk football and keep my Aunt mellow. We end up in the valley, conveniently near Pavel.
Pavel’s roommate is a cool kid. Ladies, you want him. Trust me. I’ll being him back east. Pavel and I roll towards Playa Del Rey and stop at Venice Beach for a couple of drinks and by far the worst pool game I have played in a lifetime of bad pool games.
We relocate and I egg him on about calling his ex, Michelle. Here are some things about Michelle: I met her 8 years ago, senior year spring break in LA. She was great, even if her fat friend tried to open-mouth kiss me after I helped her puke. Lovely. I can still smell it. God, I need a moment.
Michelle actually… comes down! Holy spitcan! And that honestly is the perfect cherry on top of the trip. She’s still a sweetheart and gives Pavel shit. It’s misty and we’re on our way to the airport, trying to take pictures through the dark and the fog, and this is what vacations should be. Old friends getting together and notwanting to say goodbye.
the photo set, enjoy!!