Amazingly, I didn't realize that I was being a bad host until after I rousted Allison out of bed at 7:00 a.m.
We were to head for Los Angeles that morning, December 15.
I can tell I'm going to have a hard time writing this. Already my mind is wandering. The Gods Themselves is gleaming at me from my nightstand (curse you, Isaac Asimov), my flashcards from bartender's school are tantalizing me from one corner of the bedspread, and the wind is howling outside my window. Plus there's something embarrassing that happens in this story that I have to tell you about, and I don't wanna.
But here goes anyway:
Yes, I'm a bad host. The one thing I hadn't counted on when planning Alli's visit was how early we'd have to get up every morning to actually make it to the marvelous places we intended to see.
Why'd we have to get up so early? I'm glad you asked. It gives me a chance to complain.
I live only 60 miles or so from Los Angeles. That's it. That's maybe an hour's drive. Less, seeing as the speed limit's 70 miles per hour on the freeways.
There's just one little thing that prevents me (and everybody else) from reaching Los Angeles in an hour. It begins with a "T."
Traffic.
That's it.
Traffic is the thing. There are about 90,000 people living in the Apple Valley, Victorville and Hesperia areas alone. Odds are, any given day, that some of them are going to want to go "down the hill" (south on Interstate 15 through the Cajon Pass). And of course, once you get down the hill, you are in the L.A. Basin, which, as of last year, has nearly twenty million people in it. More than half of them are in Los Angeles alone.
And all of them want to go somewhere.
Usually right when I want to go somewhere.
Dammit.
So, in order to get anywhere in Los Angeles on time, you must tack an extra half-hour to an hour (or more) onto your travel time.
We had no set time for our arrival at Universal Studios (thank God) but we hit the road about 8:00 nonetheless. Things weren't quite as bad as I'd feared, but still pretty clogged. It was the middle of the week after all. There were only 700,000 people on the roads instead of the usual 20 million.
Long story short, we made it. Alli was a champ yet again. I had appointed her my navigator, and she never missed a turn. She also kept me abreast of the route at least two turns in advance, which I appreciated immensely. We pulled up to Universal Studios, parked (our lot was adorned with many blown-up images of Woody Woodpecker), and walked into the outdoor shopping center.
Unsurprisingly, there weren't too many people about at 10:00 in the morning. The Hard Rock Café was the quietest I've ever seen it, even with the blaring guitar music. None of the shops caught our eye, festooned as they were with amazing paint jobs, life-size cutouts of King Kong, neon lights, and other assorted foofaraw.
So (after a brief stop back at Roger for my camera), we adjourned to the park proper.
Down the sidewalk, turn right at the big spinning steel globe and the mist machines, stand in line for 30 minutes while the Eastern European tourists try to haggle about ticket prices, and then go in through the blue gates.
(That's how you get into Universal Studios.)
The first thing that confronted us as we entered was a large bronze statue of a director, a script girl, and a cameraman, who were busy filming everybody who came in. The director was crouched down in a most ridiculous position, his index fingers making twin L's as he framed the shot.
We started meandering through the ever-thickening crowd. If we'd thought that the shopping center outside had been glitzy, we got a real wake-up call inside. The place was off the hook. The most astounding collection of shops, boutiques and souvenir stores lined the crooked alleyways, leaning this way and that, and covered in the most outrageous assortment of protrusions and add-ons. The effect was intensified by the Christmas decorations which had been laid over the structures. Various movie cars were parked here and there, including the Bluesmobile from The Blues Brothers.
You know I couldn't have resisted getting a picture in front of that.
After satisfying our curiosity on the streets, we headed for the rides. The first one we took was, logically, the grand Universal Studios tour.
That was a piece of wonderfulness. We drove through movie set after movie set, past movie car after movie car, through sensation after cinema-caliber sensation. I won't spoil it, of course, but I will say that we had a close encounter with Norman Bates, from Psycho; rode out a massive earthquake in a subway station; barely dodged a flash flood and some vicious dinosaurs; and even sneaked along Wisteria Lane while they were filming Desperate Housewives (quiet, please!).
There weren't too many shows we were interested in. I did notice, however, that they were going to have a 30-minute "stunt show" at the Waterworld stage. I'll be the first to admit that Waterworld (that apocalyptic Kevin Costner movie) is a piece of crap. But it's a fun piece of crap, sort of. So we said, "What the hey!"
We didn't regret it, either. There were explosions, and people falling dozens of feet into water, and fireballs, and shootouts, and hand-to-hand, and some of the most judicious use of zip-lines that I've ever seen. Those explosions and fireballs were the real kicker: loud, flashy, and so big that you could feel the wave of heat 50 feet away in the stands. There was even one point where they hurled a complete replica of a seaplane over the wall and into the water, where it skidded across the arena, in flames, and fetched up against the fence, practically in the faces of the people in the front row.
That was...neat.
The stuntmen (and stuntwomen) were really well-trained. Nobody missed a fall or failed to take a punch realistically enough. Jet-skis figured highly in this show, and some of the stuff they did with them was absolutely incredible. It was hard to believe they were doing it all live, right in front of you. I'm talking jumps, and dives underneath the water, and dodging explosions, and all that cool stuff.
It was a good show. Better than the movie, I'll warrant. Better stunts packed into less time. Plus the leading lady was cuter.
Eventually, we satisfied our curiosity with the upper lot, and descended to the lower lot via the Starway. This was an extremely long escalator, covered by a glass tile awning.
The lower lot is where all the rides are.
Including Jurassic Park.
Oh heck yeah.
We went straight for the dinosaurs. I was giddy with glee. Of all the theme rides in the park, including The Mummy, I was the most anxious to ride this one.
I mean, come on! Dinosaurs, for Pete's sake! Dinosaurs!
It was everything I'd hoped it'd be. I got into the car, and we started off down the jungle river. It was hard to believe I wasn't in the movie (or rather, the book...the literary version of Jurassic Park, which is a million times better than the movie, actually has a river segment that presages the Universal Studios version). The sun was shining through the trees and ferns and fronds overhead, forming golden beams that fell onto the swiftly flowing water below...the effect was cinematic as well as beautiful.
I won't spoil the ride, but man, is it ever a gut-wrencher. Allison and I clambered out of the car thrilled, our shoulders soaking wet, our hearts thudding, unable to keep the grins from our faces. We had survived.
We had to take pictures to commemorate the event.
That was about it. Neither of us were much interested in the other rides, and we'd seen the rest of the park. So we wandered lazily out (stopping for a few minutes to get surveyed), and got back on the highway for the Walk of Fame.
We had a nice stroll down Hollywood Boulevard together, even despite the grunge, and the whiskery black blues musician singing at us, and the kinky lingerie shops every hundred yards. We ate lunch at Combo's New York Pizzeria, where the slices were about this size...
...then got back into the car and began heading in the direction of the La Brea Tar Pits.
Or, we attempted to. We soon discovered that I was going the wrong way. We need to pull a U-turn, head back down Hollywood to Vine Street, and hang a louie.
But where to pull a U-turn? Hollywood Boulevard doesn't generally allow U-turns in turn lanes, and there aren't too many streets leading off, just narrow alleys. Unwisely, I picked one of these alleys to turn around in. This one had a couple of decently tall buildings on either side, one of which was a youth rehabilitation center with several cars parked outside. The other looked like some official building of some sort, with a few men dressed in business casual on the stoop. I pulled into some van parking, began to reverse, and—
BAM.
The Jeep jerked. There was a sickening sound, a sound I knew all too well: blunt metal meeting blunt metal, hard.
I'd backed into somebody.
I lost my head. I twisted around in a desultory attempt to see if I'd caused any damage to the other car, and, seeing none, pulled forward and out.
As I was driving past the other building, one of the semi-formally-dressed men raised a hand and yelled "HEY! You hit that woman!"
My head was still in the clouds. I was scarcely aware of what I was doing.
"Bad?" was the only thing that came out of my mouth.
"You'd better see," the man said, not aggressively, but not passively either. He pointed back at the other car.
My head began to clear. It began to feel like the inside of a dry, dusty Egyptian tomb, in fact. So did my gut.
I reversed, made sure I was as out of the way as possible, got out, and took a look at the other car (coincidentally, another white Jeep Cherokee).
What I saw made my stomach plummet through the asphalt. There was a misshapen dent the size of a ham in the other Jeep, right where the driver's side door met the front panel. My mortification compounded a hundredfold. It was bad enough that I'd backed into somebody. It was worse that Allison had witnessed it (let alone been in the car when it happened). Worst of all, however, was the fact that I'd almost run for it. The self-recrimination began immediately. I was a cheating, sneaking coward.
And now Allison knew it.
I wished that all of hell's fire and heaven's fury would come whirling out of the ether and smite me dead.
Outwardly, I remained calm. Not even I know how. I waited while the neatly-dressed man sent one of his friends inside the rehabilitation center to fetch the owner of the other Jeep. (He knew her personally, and knew this was her car.) While we waited, the man told me, "I'm just trying to help you, man. We've got cameras all around here."
He made a circular motion with his index finger. I looked up. There were indeed traffic cameras pocking the alleyway. It was a fortunate thing the man had stopped me, I realized later. If he hadn't, and I'd driven away, I would've been a whole heap of trouble.
Presently, the woman came outside. She was short, middle-aged and blond. She was not angry, but she did express regret that I'd punched in her new panel. (She said that she'd just gotten it redone.) I did not admit fault, as I'd been instructed to avoid doing, but instead made my apologies and willingly supplied the woman with insurance information. I dutifully copied hers down also. Her insurance card was expired, and she got a bit miffed when I asked for further proof of financial responsibility ("You hit me"). But in the end, we completed the transaction. She went back inside, and I folded up my insurance cards and got back into my own (completely undamaged) car.
I pulled back onto Hollywood Boulevard wanting nothing more than to melt permanently away into sludge. I couldn't even bear to look at Allison. Throughout the whole thing, she'd sat calmly in the passenger seat of my Jeep, passing me paper and pens like a helpful angel, even cracking a few jokes about the whole thing. She was marvelous. But I still felt awful. I felt bad that I'd subjected her to being involved in such a hassle, and worse that she'd witnessed my attempted escape.
And then, as I was thinking these things, Allison placed a hand on my shoulder and said, bracingly, "How ya doin'?"
I told you she was wonderful, didn't I?
The accident had taken up some of our time, enough that the La Brea Tar Pits were too close to closing to visit. More's the pity. We went to LACMA instead. You know, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. After a few missed approaches and go-arounds, we made inside the parking lot, and took the elevator up to street level.
The ticket seller told us that, if we waited 15 more minutes (until 5:00) we could "pay whatever we wanted" for admission—that is, make a donation. To kill the time, we toured the museum's current outdoor exhibit, "Urban Light":
It's just what it looks like: a bunch of iron streetlamps stuck close together and set alight. Doesn't seem to qualify as "art" to me, but it was beautiful, and I guess that's enough. The ironic thing is that Allison and I had had a rather spirited debate on what should and should not qualify as "art" that morning as we ate breakfast at IHOP. As soon as we came in sight of this particular exhibit, Allison turned to me and said "There, does that qualify as art?"
And I said, "Maybe if they turned 'em on."
And then, mere seconds after turning away from the ticket booth, the lights came on.
I turned to Allison and said, "That's better."
There remains little to tell. We toured the museum, discovering some of Picasso's little-known sculpture, and admiring Luis Meléndez's vivid and massive collection of still-life paintings.
Finally, we piled back into the car, fought our way out of Los Angeles on I-5, drove to San Diego, spent a few fruitless minutes searching for our hotel (which didn't seem to exist anymore), gave up, found a Howard Johnson, got a couple of rooms, and went to sleep.
I lay on my bed in my pajamas, watching Robin Williams opine profanely about politicians, mulling over the disappointments of the day. Both Allison and I were disappointed that there had been so little to do at Universal Studios. I was disappointed that we hadn't seen the La Brea Tar Pits. As for my disappointment in myself for what I'd done that day...well, that was nowhere near subsiding.
Allison, too, was likely disappointed in my driving skills...to say nothing of my irresponsible cowardice.
I could only hope to to give her less cause the next day.
I am now 20 pages into the first edit of my recently completed novel. I made the description of the opening setting more detailed, such as giving the name of the bar where my two protagonists like to hang out after work. (Shelly's Back Room, Washington, D.C. It's a nifty little cigar parlor.)
My new California driver's license came in the mail. Or rather, my old California driver's license came in the mail. I have the same number, the same shaky signature, even the same terrible photograph, taken when I was 16 years old, right after I got a buzz-cut. It expires in one year, too. Instead of making me a completely new license, California merely dredged up my old one from the archives instead. Gosh darn those mother-fudging son-of-a-witch dastards. Anyway, this finally closes the book on my frustrating quest to get my car registered in Southern California.
I'm going to discontinue that column I have going on here, random travel destinations. It's silly. I think, if I am going to do it, I'll wait until I've actually been to these places before I decide to showcase them on my blog. Stay tuned for a grand reinstatement in 50 years.
As I write this, I am sucking on a blueberry-flavored lollipop...which has a dead scorpion in the center of it. I've just managed to get his little stinger uncovered.
I'm going to watch The Matrix Reloaded tonight.
I went into town at 11:00 today for my FAA flight physical. The Federal Aviation Administration demands that anybody who is, or is training to be, a pilot must hold a medical certificate issued by an approved physician. To get this medical certificate, a pilot must submit to a medical examination on a regular basis. I went in to get my Class 3 (lowest) medical certificate today with a Dr. Krider, the doctor that my soon-to-be flight school Apple Valley Aviation endorses. The nurse weighed me (I'm 20 pounds lighter than I was the last time I got a medical examination), tested my eyes, took my pulse and blood pressure, and had me pee in a cup. Then Dr. Krider came in, listened to my breathing, prodded my chest and torso, had me (ahem) turn my head and cough, and then pronounced me fit to fly. I was issued my medical certificate and went on my merry way.
But get this: my colorblindness has mysteriously disappeared. The last Class 3 certificate I was issued had to have restrictions put on it (no night flying and no navigating by colored light signals) because I had failed the color test. They had me stare at those dang bits of paper with bunches of colored dots on them and asked me to tell them what numbers I saw. And of course I said, "I don't see any numbers," because I couldn't, dammit. This time, though, I buckled down, squinted, cocked my head to the side, reached out with extrasensory force, and passed the test. This time, I saw not only the 12 but also the 15, the 4, the 7...not all of the little buggers, but enough to pass the test. Now my certificate has no restrictions on it, which means I'm free to complete any and all training for a private pilot's license, including night flying. Yippee! Let's get to it! Bring on the Cessna 172 and let's saddle up! Aviation-related blog posts are finally on their way!
The National Geographic Channel can do no wrong as far as I'm concerned. They've got two shows currently running that are the proverbial bee's knees: Mega Beasts and Prehistoric Predators. Both are overflowing with gorgeous computer-generated images of ferocious monsters and fabulous creatures that seem to leap right off the screen at you, plus little-known facts that even I, a lifelong paleobiology lover, never suspected. Did you know Hyaenodon had incredibly long nasal tubes so it could still breathe even when it had a mouthful of meat?
Not much has happened over the past few days, and yet so much has. That is to say, by readers' standards, what's been going on is rather humdrum. By my standards—seeing as how it's my life and all—quite a bit has happened. I'll tell you about it anyway, shall I?
Let's get the obvious stuff out of the way first. Saturday, October 3, was a red-letter day in Apple Valley. There were two events going on, the Equine Affair (sort of a rodeo-cum-horse show open to all livestock owners in the area) and the airshow. We stopped off at both. We went into town about 10:30 to get some stuff done, and since the Horsemen's Center is right off Highway 18 on our way into town, we had a gander at the Equine Affair. It was mildly interesting—all the feed stores in the area had set up display booths, as had the farriers. Other parties had brought horses, so there were a bunch of people in cowboy hats riding about on beautiful paint and quarter horses. There were also some neat miniature horses standing by for people to cuddle with.
We stayed only long enough for Dad to locate a heavy equipment dealer who our neighbor Sharon knew. She'd told him that Dad was a gunsmith and he had expressed interest. Dad found him and they exchanged contact information, and then we were on our way again.
We hit a couple more places, and then (as I'd been eagerly hoping) we turned down Dale Evans Parkway to the Apple Valley Airport, on the northern outskirts of town. A tiny general aviation airport, the place is even smaller than Cheyenne Regional. But that day it was packed. People of all ages and sizes were going back and forth from the dusty lot where their hundreds of cars were parked onto the apron at the airfield.
The first thing I noticed after we paid the $2 admission fee and walked in the gates was a Rockwell Commander parked with its door thrown open, inviting people inside. I would've killed to get inside and sit in the cockpit—but that would've involved infanticide. The plane was a hit with the little kids. I never got a chance. Oh well, I got a photo-op with the Predator drone at least. Moving on, we discovered that Apple Valley Aviation, the flight school I hope to attend, had hauled out its fleet onto the tarmac and was displaying them for the public. I looked over their Cessna 310K, which I'd be using for my multi-engine rating, and perhaps my commercial license as well. The rest of the airshow passed in the blur of whirling propellers. I saw a P-51 Mustang, a P-47 Thunderbolt and a P-40 Tomahawk, all great favorite World War II fighters of mine, do flybys—and come taxiing down the runway after landing. This one's the Thunderbolt. I'm particularly proud of this photograph, just so you know. Ain't that a beautiful piece of machinery? You should've heard it roar as it flew over. I'm 75% German, and I got a strange urge to duck.
We walked further along the flight line and saw a life-size replica of the Red Baron's triplane (with a life-size replica of Snoopy in the cockpit).
I got to peek inside one of the California Highway Patrol's nifty Eurocopters, and meet one of the pilots, with a .45 automatic holstered at his waist (cool!).
Finally, I got to drool all over the B-25 Mitchell parked in the center of the flight apron ("Photo Fanny"), and be blackly jealous of its pilot, who would be flying it out of there at 4:00. The B-25 is a seriously cool airplane, folks. I dig warbirds, and have ever since the age of 14, but the Mitchell has always been one of my favorites. What a sexy beast! We wandered out, and went over for a bite at the Phoenix House. It's a Chinese restaurant on the corner of Navajo Road and Bear Valley that has been there since I was in high school. And get this—we haven't been in to eat there since we left for Wyoming three years ago, and the old proprietress recognized us. She remembered us perfectly. It was like we'd only been in the week before. She couldn't believe I was 23 already. She asked me if I was married yet, which made me go red (she's a past master at making me blush). What I should've said was "You got a daughter?"
We ordered up our old favorites: hot-and-sour soup for starters, followed by three-flavor delight (Mom likes this, a blend of pork, beef, and shrimp with assorted vegetables over rice), Szechuan chicken (Dad's favorite of course, being hot and spicy) and sweet-and-sour pork. Normally I go for the shrimp with lobster Sauce, but this time I decided to shake things up a bit. It was a lovely day, I'd found my old safari jacket packed away in a box in my room, my beard was actually longer than an eighth of an inch for the first time in my life, and I was feelin' mighty fine. We ate and departed with much good cheer.
That was Saturday.
Later that afternoon, the winds were howling along at forty miles an hour, gusting to sixty. The Santa Ana winds had kicked up with a vengeance. With the worst timing possible, a wildfire sprung up in the San Gabriel Mountains, near Wrightwood. The ferocious winds fanned the flames and blew smoke throughout the entire valley. It was a disorienting thing to wake up Sunday morning and see a perfect river of smoke flowing through the sky thousands of feet overhead, heading northeast, following the path of the jet stream.
In that howling wind, Dad and I flung ourselves under my '95 Jeep Cherokee to fix the hoses. Remember, while my Jeep technically passed its smog test, it still couldn't be registered, because the filler and vent hoses were leaking and needed to be replaced. The repairs would have cost me $450. Dad figured we could do it ourselves instead, so I simply ordered up the parts through the mechanic's shop and took them home. The morning of October 4—and those ghastly winds—found us prostrate under the Jeep's rear axle, making earnest repairs.
At first we figured we could simply unscrew the metal bars holding the gas tank in place and drop the tank only part of the way, in order to be able to access the hoses on top of the tank. No such luck. Quarters were so tight that we had to drop the tank all the way down. I thanked Our Lady of Internal Combustion that I had only about a quarter of a tank of gas at the time of the repairs; if I'd had a full tank the task would've been flatly impossible. As it was, Dad and I had a devil of a time wrestling the tank out of its slot and lowering it onto a makeshift platform—while laying flat on our backs under it. But we did it. We took out the old hoses (which were chewed and worn through in places), slapped the new ones on, somehow hoisted the gas tank back into its proper place, and screwed it back in.
Whew!
It was then time for some beer and some football, no doubt about it. Too bad the Chargers lost to the Steelers 28-38. That was a real letdown. I almost thought they'd pull the rabbit out of the hat, seeing as how they were down by 28 points through most of the game. But no, even Darren Sproles couldn't make up for the deplorable holes in the defense. Shucks. Next game's October 19. Double-shucks.
On Monday the fifth, I finally, finally managed to get my Jeep registered with the state. (You remember what a hassle that's been, right?) I drove the Jeep down to A-Action to have it re-tested. It passed. I came straight back home to get my registration paperwork (which, in retrospect, I should have taken with me when I left in the first place; it would've saved me a trip). I retrieved it, and since the hour was still reasonably early (as I thought) I decided to try to hit the DMV and get it registered that very same day.
I'm not going to go into a lengthy description of the California Department of Motor Vehicles. I'm sure many of you reading this are familiar with the DMV in your own state and can identify with me, and those of you that aren't have gotten an earful already. So I won't describe the mile-long, 'round-the-building lines, or appointment schedules months backlogged, or the rainclouds over the heads of the people on both sides of the desk. Suffice to say that, when I drove down to the Victorville DMV, the line was going around the building, twice. I went there merely on a whim; I suspected in my heart of hearts that the crowd would be prohibitive.
So I swung away, got on Interstate 15, and drove to Barstow.
Barstow is this wonderful little town about 30 miles north of Apple Valley, right in the middle of the Mojave Desert. It's about as crappy as Victorville and Apple Valley on a per capita basis, but since the population is drastically lower, the crappiness is not as noticeable. Plus there's a neat little gem store there where you can buy all sorts of cool rocks, and a Sherman tank in desert camo set up at the entrance to the downtown area. It was that downtown area to which I drove, exiting the highway, turning left on Barstow Road and hanging a quick right down Virginia Way, whence lay the Barstow DMV.
Now, customarily, the Barstow DMV is far less crowded than Victorville's. This is—or was—a well-kept secret, and for years a furtive legion of tri-city residents has been sneaking up to Barstow to get their vehicles licensed and their driving tests taken.
No longer. Somebody squealed. When I pulled into the parking lot there was a line out the door and along the windows of the Blockbuster Video next door. Only a fraction of the lines at Victorville, certainly, but still an inconvenient wait.
Oh well, I thought to myself as I parked and clambered out into the 70-degree sunshine, I came all this way so I might as well stick it out.
And I'm glad I did, despite the two-hour wait I endured. Thefaçade of the Blockbuster was decorated with faux-stucco pillars. In one hour, I had moved approximately three pillars, or about forty feet. It took another hour to round the corner and get in the door, and about 20 minutes to get from the door to the counter...about twenty-five feet or so.
That was the only downside. I had a very interesting conversation with a short, swarthy, craggy-faced Barstow man who was registering his vehicle as well, and was worried that they wouldn't take ATM cards. Better yet, I managed to get all of my stuff done: I not only completed my registration, but I also applied for a California driver's license. (Both should be mailed to me within two weeks.)
I stopped by a Valero station on the way out of town to grab a snack (an awful gas station roast beef sandwich, some Sun Chips, a Nutri-Grain bar, and some Tropicana orange juice; it reminded me forcibly of the kind of meals I subsisted on when commuting three days to college every August and January).
Best of all, I got to come back home on the 247.
Beautiful, ain't it? It's old Highway 247, which turns into Barstow Road as you come into town. It's the back way out of and into Barstow from Apple Valley. After some winding turns across the stark beauty of the desert, and one pass over a 4148-foot mountaintop, it dumps you out on Highway 18, right in the middle of Lucerne Valley, hardly a stone's throw from my house. From someone who lives where I do (off Milpas Road) it's a sweeter deal than coming back on I-15 and having to bulldoze my way back through Victorville and Apple Valley traffic. Not to mention that it's scenic as all get-out. I thoroughly enjoyed the 40-minute drive back in the cool autumn air.
And that was Monday.
Tuesday (today) I went into town with Mum to do something I should've done a long time ago: get my own bank account. Mom and I have had a joint account ever since I first opened one in 2000. Now that I'm all done with college and have gotten back from abroad, it's high time I took charge of my own finances. So we did that, closing my old student account (with the help of a lovely Wells Fargo representative, Dori) and reopening another one.
And you want to know something scary? On this new account, I pay $75 every month into my IRA. I'm only 23, for cryin' out loud. Yeah, I know that the sooner you start, the more you'll end up with, but still, it's a scary thing to be thinking about this so soon. Yikes. I'm not ready for this. I never really figured I'd retire anyway. I always thought I'd keep flying and tending bar until I drilled a hole in the ground or got shot. Strange to think of saving for retirement now...
Ah, but how callous of me to worry about things like my personal finances, waiting in lines, and the state of San Diego's defense, when there are poor people in Wrightwood whose homes burned down! Sadly, the Sheep Fire, which I mentioned earlier, eventually spread to 7,500 acres and burned several homes. The entire town of Wrightwood had to evacuated, and it was only today (the sixth) that they were let back in. All today, while out and about in the valley, Mom and I could look up at the slopes of Mount Baldy and see the smoke wafting up from it, gradually dying down. The fire is now under control, last I heard. Once the Santa Ana winds died, the firefighters had things a lot easier. The cool autumn temperatures helped, too.
Thank goodness that's over. Lord knows we don't need any more fires this season.
Oh yeah, one more thing: last night I sat down on my bed, comic books, various novels, CDs, cell phone, glass of water, USB drive, and reference volumes scattered and piled close at hand, and took an enormous chunk out of the novel. I banged out 7,500 words (the same number of acres burned by the Sheep Fire—how's that for a spooky bit of coincidence?). In so doing, I took care of the climax. Now all that's left is the denouement...which I'm about to start working on now.
That means I could have this novel of mine—my very first—finished tonight.
Tonight.
After having worked on it for nearly a year, and various other versions of the same story since I was 19 years old.
Finished. Completely.
Let us discuss certain first principles regarding car ownership in the sunny, smoggy, scummy state of California. I will introduce some terminology to start:
smog: a portmanteau of "smoke" and "fog," referring to aerosol pollutants (industrial waste, car exhaust, and so on) mixing with airborne water droplets (like fog) to form a filmy, unhealthy haze.
smogging: in certain states like California, drivers are required by law to have their car "smogged"; that is, tested to ensure that they are keeping noxious exhaust emissions low, which in turn ensures that smog levels are minimized. Before a car can be registered, it must be smogged.
title: in reference to automobiles, this is a legal certificate of ownership issued by the Department of Motor Vehicles. Also known as a "pink slip."
license: everybody knows what this is, but I thought I'd mention it here just to make this list longer. This is the little piece of plastic, obtained after you complete your driver's test, that says you're allowed to drive a certain class of vehicle. It has your picture, your birthday, and some other miscellaneous crap on it.
registration: bureaucracy these days being what it is, it's no longer enough to simply own a vehicle. You now must register it with your state of residence. You tell them you have a car and they issue you with license plates that you bolt onto said car. Makes it easier for the cops to identify you, and a whole bunch of other stuff.
registration stickers: as if registering a vehicle wasn't enough, the registration expires after a few years. So you have to occasionally renew your registration. These stickers, applied directly to your license plates, keep track of your registration currency.
Are we clear? To own and operate a car in this state, you need four, count 'em, four things: title, registration, license, and a smog check.
I'm writing this because I went in to get a smog check today, in preparation for obtaining registration for my 1995 Jeep Cherokee, and thereby being able to drive my car in California legally.
I just got back. It took almost seven hours.
That's Southern California for you.
First, I got up at 7:00 a.m. to get to A-Action Automotive (the ones who did the checkup on the Jeep right before I purchased it) by eight. I did, and got it inspected. At nine, owner Steve Coultas came out to give me the verdict. The Jeep barely passed the smog check, but it failed on the fuel system evaluation. There was a leak in the fuel system somewhere. The smog check had already cost me $60, but I went ahead and approved the $80 fuel system inspection.
That took a further hour or two. I went down to Starbucks on the corner of Hesperia Road and Bear Valley and had some passion fruit lemonade tea (for $2.80), then went across the street to Walgreen's and read some magazines: guns, video games, even the latest issue of Time. It was the "brain" issue, all about the human brain and its vagaries.
Somewhere between 10:30 and 11:00 I returned to the shop and heard the new verdict: both the filler hose and the vent hose, connected to the fuel tank, were leaking. To repair it, the custom bumper on the Jeep and the fuel tank would both have to be "dropped" (unscrewed, lowered and removed). Total repairs, including parts and labor, came to just over $450.
The day had already been going badly before I heard this. I'd ripped my pants on the rabbit-wire on my way out of the backyard gate, and I'd had to get up early. Now I was going to spend two weeks' pay on these repairs. Not that I would've cared, mind you. But compounded with the rest of what happened today...well, read on.
So I went ahead and approved this latest round of repairs, too. Steve checked and told me that his shop had the hoses in stock, so they wouldn't need to be ordered. Good, because it meant the Jeep could be repaired that same day. And I needed to have it repaired as soon as possible. On Monday I'd be getting up early again to head up to Barstow and the office of the Department of Motor Vehicles to get the Jeep registered. Steve printed me out an cost estimate and told me the Jeep should be finished by this afternoon.
(I'd just like to point out here that, despite how it sounds, I'm not blaming A-Action Automotive or any of its employees for this. I understand that parts and labor cost a lot. I'm just deploring the fact that I have to spend that much money on repairs. I'm not complaining that A-Action is charging me that much for them. They run a splendid repair shop and I'd recommend them to anybody. This was just some bad news on top of a soon-to-be stinky day...but read on.)
My dad had called me earlier and told me he and Mom were coming into town to go shopping. Once he heard that the Jeep was going in for new repairs, Dad said he'd pick me up and we'd all go together while the repairs were going on. I plunked myself down on the sidewalk outside the repair shop and awaited their coming, shaded from the blasphemous sun by the A-Action sign out front. Mom and Dad came shortly before noon, and we headed off: first to try to find a mattress store in Oak Hills (which we didn't; it wasn't even there) and then to Tom's Burgers to get lunch (yum!).
Then (this was about 1:00) we went back to A-Action. The Jeep was sitting outside in the parking lot...a good sign? Perhaps it was finished already. I went into the small front office. Steve said that the parts that they'd thought they had weren't correct; the hoses were intended for a Jeep Wrangler, not a Jeep Cherokee. He'd order up the parts and I could bring the Jeep back in on Monday to have it repaired.
Awesome.
Fortunately I didn't have to pay anything right then and there. Steve nicely said, "We'll square up when you come in on Monday." I walked out of the office feeling slightly let down. Five hours and nothing had been fixed, only diagnosed. The Jeep hadn't even passed its smog check thanks to those blasted leaks in the fuel system (which the DMV would never let pass). I'd have to get it re-checked on Monday after repairs were concluded. Damn it and blast it.
Thereafter, Mom, Dad, and I stopped by Harbor Freight (a hardware store) to get some more stuff for my emergency automotive kit: a hydraulic jack and a towing cable, replete with large steel hooks (cool!).
Then we split up. Mom and Dad went home, and I went to Eagle Motors, the car dealership where I'd originally bought the Jeep (I should just think up a name for the Jeep so I wouldn't have to keep blandly referring to it as "the Jeep," shouldn't I?).
I had an errand in mind. I didn't have a title for the Jeep. I had a lot of other paperwork that had been given to me when I'd bought the car, but no title. I didn't know why. Normally they give you the title when you buy the car. But I didn't have it. So I went in to get it.
Carl was still there, his wrinkled, spotty, sandal-clad foot resting on the desktop. I told him, politely, that I hadn't received a title. After leafing slowly through the paperwork I set before him and clicking around on the computer for a couple minutes (whistling tunelessly over the blaring television), he pronounced that, as far as he knew, my title was still being processed by the DMV. They'd mail it to me when they were finished. I asked how long he thought it'd be. He said he didn't know. He told me to give him a call about 2:30 (it was about 1:45 right then), when Sal, the owner, would come back and dig up the paperwork.
I sighed, thanked him, and left.
I got some gas. I drove almost all the way home, then pulled over and called Eagle Motors precisely at 2:30. Carl said that he'd confirmed with Sal that Eagle Motors didn't have the Jeep's title. The DMV was working on it, and would mail it to me. However, the reason I hadn't received my registration paperwork is that Eagle Motors had mailed it to me, but it had returned undeliverable.
I almost banged my head against my steering wheel when I heard this. I'd given them my street address instead of my mailing address. We don't receive mail at our street address. I quoted him the mailing address and requested (biting back my self-disgust) that he send my registration paperwork to me again.
I should explain here, now, that the reason I haven't received my title is because I haven't registered my vehicle with the state, and the reason that I haven't registered my vehicle with the state is because I don't have any registration paperwork, and the reason I don't have any registration paperwork is because I gave Eagle Motors my physical address instead of my mailing address that day long ago when I bought the car. So in the meantime, my parents and I have been wondering and worrying and wailing about how my registration paperwork hasn't shown up yet and how I don't yet have my car registered with the state and in the meantime the fuzz could pull me over and ticket me for driving around without registration. Sheesh.
After getting home at a quarter to three, having left the house precisely seven hours earlier, I collapsed onto my bed and considered going into hibernation ahead of schedule.
An entire day shot. Blown. Down the drain. As if being informed that I'd be shelling out $450 on car repairs wasn't enough, I had then been notified that I'd made a stupid mistake, and had been wondering and wailing and waiting for absolutely nothing this entire time. And it took seven hours and an unholy amount of driving around in triple-digit heat to figure it all out.
This is how you register a car in Southern California.
Phase One, anyway.
You know I couldn't have resisted getting a picture in front of that.
After satisfying our curiosity on the streets, we headed for the rides. The first one we took was, logically, the grand Universal Studios tour.
That was a piece of wonderfulness. We drove through movie set after movie set, past movie car after movie car, through sensation after cinema-caliber sensation. I won't spoil it, of course, but I will say that we had a close encounter with Norman Bates, from Psycho; rode out a massive earthquake in a subway station; barely dodged a flash flood and some vicious dinosaurs; and even sneaked along Wisteria Lane while they were filming Desperate Housewives (quiet, please!).
There weren't too many shows we were interested in. I did notice, however, that they were going to have a 30-minute "stunt show" at the Waterworld stage. I'll be the first to admit that Waterworld (that apocalyptic Kevin Costner movie) is a piece of crap. But it's a fun piece of crap, sort of. So we said, "What the hey!"
We didn't regret it, either. There were explosions, and people falling dozens of feet into water, and fireballs, and shootouts, and hand-to-hand, and some of the most judicious use of zip-lines that I've ever seen. Those explosions and fireballs were the real kicker: loud, flashy, and so big that you could feel the wave of heat 50 feet away in the stands. There was even one point where they hurled a complete replica of a seaplane over the wall and into the water, where it skidded across the arena, in flames, and fetched up against the fence, practically in the faces of the people in the front row.
That was...neat.
The stuntmen (and stuntwomen) were really well-trained. Nobody missed a fall or failed to take a punch realistically enough. Jet-skis figured highly in this show, and some of the stuff they did with them was absolutely incredible. It was hard to believe they were doing it all live, right in front of you. I'm talking jumps, and dives underneath the water, and dodging explosions, and all that cool stuff.
It was a good show. Better than the movie, I'll warrant. Better stunts packed into less time. Plus the leading lady was cuter.
Eventually, we satisfied our curiosity with the upper lot, and descended to the lower lot via the Starway. This was an extremely long escalator, covered by a glass tile awning.
The lower lot is where all the rides are.
Including Jurassic Park.
Oh heck yeah.
We went straight for the dinosaurs. I was giddy with glee. Of all the theme rides in the park, including The Mummy, I was the most anxious to ride this one.
I mean, come on! Dinosaurs, for Pete's sake! Dinosaurs!
It was everything I'd hoped it'd be. I got into the car, and we started off down the jungle river. It was hard to believe I wasn't in the movie (or rather, the book...the literary version of Jurassic Park, which is a million times better than the movie, actually has a river segment that presages the Universal Studios version). The sun was shining through the trees and ferns and fronds overhead, forming golden beams that fell onto the swiftly flowing water below...the effect was cinematic as well as beautiful.
I won't spoil the ride, but man, is it ever a gut-wrencher. Allison and I clambered out of the car thrilled, our shoulders soaking wet, our hearts thudding, unable to keep the grins from our faces. We had survived.
We had to take pictures to commemorate the event.
That was about it. Neither of us were much interested in the other rides, and we'd seen the rest of the park. So we wandered lazily out (stopping for a few minutes to get surveyed), and got back on the highway for the Walk of Fame.
We had a nice stroll down Hollywood Boulevard together, even despite the grunge, and the whiskery black blues musician singing at us, and the kinky lingerie shops every hundred yards. We ate lunch at Combo's New York Pizzeria, where the slices were about this size...
...then got back into the car and began heading in the direction of the La Brea Tar Pits.
Or, we attempted to. We soon discovered that I was going the wrong way. We need to pull a U-turn, head back down Hollywood to Vine Street, and hang a louie.
But where to pull a U-turn? Hollywood Boulevard doesn't generally allow U-turns in turn lanes, and there aren't too many streets leading off, just narrow alleys. Unwisely, I picked one of these alleys to turn around in. This one had a couple of decently tall buildings on either side, one of which was a youth rehabilitation center with several cars parked outside. The other looked like some official building of some sort, with a few men dressed in business casual on the stoop. I pulled into some van parking, began to reverse, and—
BAM.
The Jeep jerked. There was a sickening sound, a sound I knew all too well: blunt metal meeting blunt metal, hard.
I'd backed into somebody.
I lost my head. I twisted around in a desultory attempt to see if I'd caused any damage to the other car, and, seeing none, pulled forward and out.
As I was driving past the other building, one of the semi-formally-dressed men raised a hand and yelled "HEY! You hit that woman!"
My head was still in the clouds. I was scarcely aware of what I was doing.
"Bad?" was the only thing that came out of my mouth.
"You'd better see," the man said, not aggressively, but not passively either. He pointed back at the other car.
My head began to clear. It began to feel like the inside of a dry, dusty Egyptian tomb, in fact. So did my gut.
I reversed, made sure I was as out of the way as possible, got out, and took a look at the other car (coincidentally, another white Jeep Cherokee).
What I saw made my stomach plummet through the asphalt. There was a misshapen dent the size of a ham in the other Jeep, right where the driver's side door met the front panel. My mortification compounded a hundredfold. It was bad enough that I'd backed into somebody. It was worse that Allison had witnessed it (let alone been in the car when it happened). Worst of all, however, was the fact that I'd almost run for it. The self-recrimination began immediately. I was a cheating, sneaking coward.
And now Allison knew it.
I wished that all of hell's fire and heaven's fury would come whirling out of the ether and smite me dead.
Outwardly, I remained calm. Not even I know how. I waited while the neatly-dressed man sent one of his friends inside the rehabilitation center to fetch the owner of the other Jeep. (He knew her personally, and knew this was her car.) While we waited, the man told me, "I'm just trying to help you, man. We've got cameras all around here."
He made a circular motion with his index finger. I looked up. There were indeed traffic cameras pocking the alleyway. It was a fortunate thing the man had stopped me, I realized later. If he hadn't, and I'd driven away, I would've been a whole heap of trouble.
Presently, the woman came outside. She was short, middle-aged and blond. She was not angry, but she did express regret that I'd punched in her new panel. (She said that she'd just gotten it redone.) I did not admit fault, as I'd been instructed to avoid doing, but instead made my apologies and willingly supplied the woman with insurance information. I dutifully copied hers down also. Her insurance card was expired, and she got a bit miffed when I asked for further proof of financial responsibility ("You hit me"). But in the end, we completed the transaction. She went back inside, and I folded up my insurance cards and got back into my own (completely undamaged) car.
I pulled back onto Hollywood Boulevard wanting nothing more than to melt permanently away into sludge. I couldn't even bear to look at Allison. Throughout the whole thing, she'd sat calmly in the passenger seat of my Jeep, passing me paper and pens like a helpful angel, even cracking a few jokes about the whole thing. She was marvelous. But I still felt awful. I felt bad that I'd subjected her to being involved in such a hassle, and worse that she'd witnessed my attempted escape.
And then, as I was thinking these things, Allison placed a hand on my shoulder and said, bracingly, "How ya doin'?"
I told you she was wonderful, didn't I?
The accident had taken up some of our time, enough that the La Brea Tar Pits were too close to closing to visit. More's the pity. We went to LACMA instead. You know, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. After a few missed approaches and go-arounds, we made inside the parking lot, and took the elevator up to street level.
The ticket seller told us that, if we waited 15 more minutes (until 5:00) we could "pay whatever we wanted" for admission—that is, make a donation. To kill the time, we toured the museum's current outdoor exhibit, "Urban Light":
It's just what it looks like: a bunch of iron streetlamps stuck close together and set alight. Doesn't seem to qualify as "art" to me, but it was beautiful, and I guess that's enough. The ironic thing is that Allison and I had had a rather spirited debate on what should and should not qualify as "art" that morning as we ate breakfast at IHOP. As soon as we came in sight of this particular exhibit, Allison turned to me and said "There, does that qualify as art?"
And I said, "Maybe if they turned 'em on."
And then, mere seconds after turning away from the ticket booth, the lights came on.
I turned to Allison and said, "That's better."
There remains little to tell. We toured the museum, discovering some of Picasso's little-known sculpture, and admiring Luis Meléndez's vivid and massive collection of still-life paintings.
Finally, we piled back into the car, fought our way out of Los Angeles on I-5, drove to San Diego, spent a few fruitless minutes searching for our hotel (which didn't seem to exist anymore), gave up, found a Howard Johnson, got a couple of rooms, and went to sleep.
I lay on my bed in my pajamas, watching Robin Williams opine profanely about politicians, mulling over the disappointments of the day. Both Allison and I were disappointed that there had been so little to do at Universal Studios. I was disappointed that we hadn't seen the La Brea Tar Pits. As for my disappointment in myself for what I'd done that day...well, that was nowhere near subsiding.
Allison, too, was likely disappointed in my driving skills...to say nothing of my irresponsible cowardice.
I could only hope to to give her less cause the next day.
