Pet Cobra

A Much Needed Break

We'll be heading up to San Francisco today for a long weekend. I'm most definitely looking forward to it; The City is one of our favorite places. Despite the insane costs of everything, the mercurial weather, and the parking problems, we always have a good time there - the fantastic restaurants alone are worth the price of admission. (Every so often we get it in our heads that we want to live there - then I do the math and figure that if we were to lead the lifestyle that we lead when we go as tourists, I would need to make exactly $376,041.07 a year.)

The trip is not without its anxieties; namely, that we're leaving the kid behind for two and a half days, the longest we've been apart from him. We've reassured him that he will have a fantastic time at the grandparents, what with the pool and the fun things they have lined up for him and the massive amounts of spoiling that will occur; also, his doggie Mick will be there as well, as will several of his stuffed animal entourage. He'll be fine (crosses fingers, sacrifices goat, says prayer to Xenu and little baby Jesus, who's sittin' in his crib watchin the Baby Einstein videos, learnin' 'bout shapes and colors). Pictures, etc. upon our return. Also, for my paddle-out at Steamer Lane, I have purchased a fine new 8' 6" Doyle and a rashguard emblazoned with "SO-CAL RULZ!", which should look nice with my neon green Maui and Sons jams. Gotta represent!

Mini-Me?

I'd rather spend time in a Turkish prison than go car shopping. But there we were, at the Nissan dealership, looking over giant kidhaulers, vexed. The Pathfinder - surprisingly little room in the back seat, next to none in the third row, so that was out. Which left us thinking about:

The Armada: This thing is a boeWHEEmoth (think Steven Wright in Reservoir Dogs). It's big to the point of obnoxiousness. 28 gallon gas tank. 15 mpg on the highway (going downhill with a tailwind). Lots of room for kids, dog, gear in the back, boards on the roof. And tricked out - leather, Bose stereo, lots of knobs controlling various things. Still, I'd feel tremendously guilty buying one of these. Might as well just send a check for $24k (this was the price on a tricked out 2004, V8, 4WD, tow package, 28k miles.)

The Quest. I know. Minivan. A couple of things. First, fold down third row seats and second row captain's chair-style seats = Jay can put all three of his boards inside the thing with wife, kids and dog also riding along and still have plenty of room for other gear. Second, I swear to God I saw Rob Machado driving one last year.

Up The Lost Coast, Part II

Noon found me in Gualala. The towns were starting to look the same - a couple of inns, a gas station or two, a small grocery store. This one had a deli, and I pulled off to grab a sandwich. Across the street, the local church was holding a swap meet; there was quite a crowd, and more little kids than one might expect. What would it be like, I wondered, to raise Lucas in a place like this? How much slower the world moved up here; more time, perhaps, to be a kid.

I drove about a half a mile up the road, and found a turnout; a short walk to the seacliffs. I walked over to the edge, sat down, ate my sandwich, and watched the world go by. Easy enough to do, and after four hours of driving that day, I gave myself a break. I was ahead of schedule. I'd be at my destination shortly, and there was time to ease up and soak it in.

Up The Lost Coast, Part One

I hit the road before dawn on Friday. The Xterra was loaded - dufflebag with clothes, cooler with waters and Cokes, sleeping bag, air mattress, tent, wetsuit, booties, Hogfish inside, longboard strapped to the roof. My goal was to get to San Francisco that day, then push on past Marin and Mendocino, up to the Fort Bragg area. I'd take the 101up to Morro Bay, stop and have lunch with my grandmother (she was being released from the hospital, after a bout with pneumonia), then take the PCH proper - Highway 1 - across the Golden Gate and into the big empty of true Northern California. The Lost Coast. Seacliffs hundreds of feet high. Sharks. Cold, raging water. Isolation. I was giddy - this was going to be an adventure.

Epic

Several years back, I took a trip to Yosemite Valley by myself. Just threw a bunch of clothes and gear into the truck and went. Got a back country permit upon arrival and spent three days on the trail - I circumnavigated the valley, via a trail that started at Mirror Lake, went up the valley walls, over Cloud's Rest, and down by the Falls and Half Dome. Just me.

I did this kind of stuff a lot - random solo trips to Mammoth, Joshua Tree, wherever. But that was a long time ago. I grew up a bit - met a gal, got married, found a career, had a kid. We recently realized that some alone time is a good thing - Beth took a weekend trip to Vegas with some friends and had a blast. I had a thought for some alone time for me, ran it by her, and she was very enthusiastic about my plan.

Tomorrow I'm packing for another trip. This time, I'm taking the Xterra north. Leaving Friday and not stopping until I get past San Francisco. Up the PCH to the Lost Coast for a couple of days. Bringing the surfboards and a journal (this is, in a sense, a research trip - my novel centers around just such a roadtrip, and I need to scout locations, actually see the world inhabited by my characters). Just me. And a whole lot of unexplored shores. Talk to you when I get back.

Sophomoricistication

I'll preface this by saying yes, I completely agree with you - there's nothing as ass-puckeringly boring as a blog post about blogging. But before I get to the point of this post, I need to mention a couple of things - a little backstory, if you will. First, I was on a work errand for most of last week. The company sent me up to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo for a job fair. Fortuitous, that - I have family a stone's throw away, and so Beth and Lucas accompanied me in the Audi. We took the scenic route, the 101 to the 154, straight through the Los Olivos wine country, where we sampled some wares. We're becoming Wine People - these days I find myself saying things like "It's good now, but we should probably lay it down for a year or so" and "this red's a bit hot" and "2004? I don't want old wine! Bring me some FRESH wine!" Second, the wine thing played a big part in the dinner we attended on Saturday night - we went with some friends to a place called The Wine Vault and Bistro, where we took part in a tasting/pairing meal. It was decent, made more so by the fact that each of us put away the equivalent of a full bottle, plus a hefty shot of pear-flavored Cognac. (In other words, the last course could've been Beef-A-Roni served cold out of the can accompanied by a glass of warm Night Train and I would've given it an enthusiastic thumbs-up.). During the course of the evening I rambled on to my buddy Hardy about the whole blogging/writing thing. "Kids", I slurred, "are the LEAST interesting element of a parenting blog. They all pretty much do the same things - they say/do cute/funny/sweet/horrifically embarassing stuff, and while as a parent I can totally relate, as a reader, I'm much more interested in the parent."

Part of what we all go through when we have kids is the need to keep at least some of our old identity. I've noticed a steady increase in visitors here, partially due to the fact that some very nice folks have added this site to their blogrolls. This presents a problem - I don't really see this site as being a "daddy blog" or "parenting blog". This site serves a dumping ground for whatever happens to be on my mind when I flip open the laptop; maybe it's the kid, maybe it's surfing, maybe it's my struggle with the fact that I abhor people who take handicapped spots when they are clearly not and yet every time I go to take a dump in a public restroom my first choice is ALWAYS the handicapped stall because a fella can really relax with all that legroom and what kind of hypocritical bastard am I? The point, and I do have one, is that there's lots to write about.

So, that said, and without further adieu, a bit about my kid. The other day, he was sitting in his chair, making grunting sounds - "UNNNNNGH. UNNNNNNNNNNNNNGH." "Lucas, are you trying to poop?", Beth asked. "NO!", he cheerfully replied. "I'm trying to fart!"

Revival

Saturday night, and we're in Los Osos, somewhere in Central California, a place of eternal autumn, green hills rolling right up to an otter-filled ocean. We're in a red barn that's evolved into the town's community center; my grandmother has taken us to listen to a group of musicians called the Howlie Playboys. They're a bunch of old guys who play Hawaiian Cowboy music. The place is packed, and if you scratch your head pondering the allure of Hawaiian Cowboy music, why, you've never had the pleasure of the Howlie Playboys' company. Somehow, the slide steel guitar and the stand-up bass seem right at home here, even though Los Osos has more in common with Cicely, AK, than Lahaina, HI. We don't stay long - Lucas is a bit squirrely, and much more interested in exploring the adjacent playground and watching the kids tear up the skatepark on the other side of the barn. Still, we can hear the sounds of the Cowboys and the appreciative hoots and whistles of the crowd inside; the music reaches us as we watch our kid at play in the misty evening. At that moment, there's no place that I'd rather be.

We packed in a lot this weekend - excursions to Avila Beach and Morro Bay, two separate stops for wine-tasting in Los Olivos (tip for the unwary: if you go, don't mention Sideways, even ironically; they're over it), breakfast at the Madonna Inn (where they've raised the urinal to newfound heights), a crazy-ass detour through the Los Padres National Forest to avoid Santa Barbara traffic (took us just as long, but ah, the Audi, she loves powering through the twisties - wow, taking the Audi and going wine-tasting! It's official - I'm Yuppie Scum!). After five days in Texas, it was needed - time to explore, see family members that I hadn't seen in months, just get away from it all.

Of course, "it all" always comes back to bite you in the ass. This time it chose our dog as it's avatar; when we got home earlier this evening, we found that Mick (who'd been in the care of a local dogsitter), had worn a five-inch hotspot onto his flank; Beth rushed him to the emergency vet while I tried to put an overtired kid to bed ("NO Daddy! I'm AWAKE!"). Late word that the dog is fine - antibiotics, an anti-inflammatory, a radar dish around his neck, all to the turn of $300. Think I can the get the Howlie Cowboys to come down and play a benefit?

Why I Already Hate Dallas; Or, The Stars At Night Are Big And Bright Deep In The Heart Of Darkness

I'll tell you why. Because I had written a pretty goddamn funny post about my first 24 hours here in Dallas, but the shitty wireless service in this hotel timed out the connection as I was saving it, and I'm too tired and pissed off to try to recapture what I wrote, but trust me when I tell you it was good. I've only been here a day and a half and I'm already sick of this whole cracker-ass place. Along with that: The W stickers. They're everywhere. I drove past the George W. Bush Memorial Highway. Tonight, I ate dinner at a food court Chinese place; the combo plate was some sort of chicken, fried rice, and potatoes. Potatoes with the Chinese food. Charlie Sheen once said that someone once said that Hell is the impossibility of Reason. They both got it wrong. Hell is Texas.

I'll Try Not To Shoot J.R.

For the first time in my working life, I get to travel outside the state of California for work-related purposes. I'll be in Dallas from August 28th through September 1. I know very little about Dallas, other than it's hotter than an armadillo's ass on a...a...fajita skillet? Isn't that a Texan saying? This site wasn't very helpful. So if you have tips, suggestions, or would like to meet me at Gilley's for a round of Shiner Bocks and a ride on the mechanical bull, feel free to put your thoughts in the Comments.