Homesick Suburban Alien

It was somewhere around midnight, on the cusp of another turkey day full of giving thanks and togetherness and what have you.  Driving down to LA, I realized and felt that, however minor and off-handed it seemed to be, this Thanksgiving was going to be different.  Looking back on past such family gatherings, the questions always arise, “So how’s school?  What classes are you taking?  When do you graduate?”  With those inquiries no longer applicable, there’s understandably a shift in focus; a shift towards the future.  “What are you going to do now?  Are you looking for a job?”  With the brush of exaggeration stroking furiously, I coax a believable, if not altogether focused retort, hoping and quite confident that the ruse has worked.  “Are you looking for a job?”  Sure, jobs are fun.  “Look into this company.”  Ok. Except no, that sounds stupid.  I don’t think I want to do that at all. 

It was a time when that heavy satin curtain of mysticism between me and adulthood – which had slowly been falling for the last couple years – now lay motionless in a heap at the foot of reality.  I finally get the joke.  These people I had been listening to, without question, for years… my teachers, my parents, my bosses.  Whatever had separated us before is gone.

Sitting there alone on the deck, and with the mushrooms hitting the peak of their poison, I have to close my eyes to stop the incessant chatter playing back in my brain.  Deep breadth in.  Deep breadth out.  The until now distant murmur of the city, suddenly becomes a deafening growl, an orchestrated cacophony of departing planes, midnight traffic, night life, pleasures, and sins.  It feels like the glass upon glass of wine has at once soaked my entire interior, as every pore in my body seems to be exhaling the soft bitter aftertaste of a certain cab that had been enjoyed earlier.  Maybe the Coppola, maybe the Crusher, maybe the daunting twist-off top one.  The memory’s lost and unfocused behind the city’s symphony howling in my eardrums.  I open my eyes and a breath stops short as the eerie serenity of my environment floods back.  There’s a full moon’s reflection on the Pacific coming from back above and behind the house, past this balcony and that groove of palm trees, and the boardwalk lights and the lifeguard tower, hitting the water just north of the Pier.  All in one frame, and with a hand extended out, the reflection’s caught in a finger-formed crescent before my eyes and, to me, it is a thing of absolute beauty; a beauty capable of being experienced only by an over-analytical, hair-pulling man drunk silly on wine, high stupid on spliffs, and positively over the falls in a wood crate barrel named “Chocolate Mushroom Bars”.


[to be continued]

Zurich: I Only Lied About Being a Thief

We begin stealing prolifically in Zurich.  Financially, Max and I are in dire straits.  When we meet up with Mike, my account balance is at another impressive low of $10.54, which translates roughly into 8.00 EUR.  Eight euros at the halfway point of the trip.  Not ideal, especially in one of the most expensive cities in Europe.

As far as supermarkets go, COOP, Switzerland’s Safeway, offers a relatively exciting variety of products.  What isn’t so exciting are the astronomical prices they're offered at.  Four Swiss-Francs for a tiny thing of hummus, at least five Swiss-Francs for any kind of sandwich meat besides that cheap, sticky, bland salami (which is still 3.50 FRANC).  Our first meal in Zurich, one of the crown jewels of European wealth, is taken on some steps, covered overhead, near the front of the COOP.  It's raining out on the street, pouring I should say, and there's a very brisk bite in the air.  Still, we're just happy to have something to eat after sleeping in the station and catching the first train from Munich.  And we're stoked that we've finally met up with Mike, who's just generally stoked to be in Europe.  We decidedly split the cost of groceries, which comes out to about 8.00 Swiss-Franc.  And for our troubles?  With everything laid out, it looks to us to be a decently sized, albeit calorie-starved feast.

We have two loaves of bread, a bag of paprika-flavored chips, hummus, pesto, salami, some dark-colored, thinly sliced mystery meat, TUCs of course, pineapple slices, a bottle of orange juice, and a bottle of pear juice.  Now for all those of you looking at this list of items and back up at what we paid for it and subsequently having a very confused look upon your face thinking, “how did they get all that food for just 8.00 Swiss franc?  Was there some super sale at the COOP that day?” No, idiot, we stole it.  Well, most of it.  The long bread, the orange juice, and the puffy bag of chips aren’t exactly ideal articles for sliding into my waistband or Max’s already stuffed backpack.

Let’s call it morality.  Or at least something like it.  Whatever it is, I like to think that throughout these petty thefts, there's at least a shadow of the ideal present.  We keep our thievery to major chain supermarkets. And there's never really been that guilty feeling for me whenever stealing from corporate chain stores.  Especially when my stomach's about as empty as my wallet.

Perhaps this absence of guilt stems from a two-year stint I had working for a shitty corporate retail store.  Perhaps it comes from all those nights watching Business News Nightly back at home and hearing about how corporate super stores were muscling out small family owned businesses.  Who knows, but for whatever reason, walking out of the COOP with packaged meats and a container of hummus and a bottle of pear juice digging hard into the small of my back under my waistband, there's no hint of guilt on my conscience or on face or in my stride.

As Max so succinctly puts it, “It’s a way to stick it to the man.  Europe should all just be on Euro…  Fuckin’ western union… And any other fuckin’ money exchange can suck my balls too.”

Quote of the Day: And Now You'll Never Forget

A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave. A soul mate’s purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, and make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life.” -~ Elizabeth Gilbert

Passenger Seat

It's a longing.  The pulling of the hair, the restless nights, the heavy eyes.  It all points to an almost incomprehensible longing.  I've been stuck in this limbo too long, waiting for the scale to tip this way or that, to root me here or suck me back to the bustle and familiar routine of Los Angeles.  True, the turn of events that brought me to this point, sprawled on a full-size bed in this first-floor apartment living room is ridiculous to say the least; vagabonding up and down the coast before stopping to breathe in Santa Cruz.  And still, there's a sense of settlement missing that I haven't felt since before leaving for Europe.  That was four months ago.

I can feel my brain trying to fill this void, and the lapse in time is beginning to take it's toll.  It's like a race-engine running in the red for too long, and for my sake I hope it's got a few more laps in it.

The Article: RipCurl Surf Outlet

                               

When people think of westside Santa Cruz surfing, their minds jump to O’Neil, Hotline, and the Haut Shop, the Arrow shop… but there is another.  Located at the corner of Bay Street and Mission Street, the Rip Curl Surf Outlet is a relatively new addition to the Westside shop scene, having opened only four years ago.  Rip Curl has gone through a hazing of sorts if you will.  It’s had a brick or two thrown through the front window in its day.  “You got to understand, man.  This isn’t a local shop. It’s a corporate chain, and that doesn’t really go over well sometimes with some people.  I don’t let it bother me.” 

That’s Mike, one of the supervisors at Rip Curl.  He’s been working at the shop, on and off, since its opening.  So what’s the difference between working at a surf shop and a surf outlet? “Not much really.  Except everything’s on SAAAY-EL!! It’s a pretty sick little place,” he explains laughing. 

Looking around the stained-wood walls, there are definitely a lot of things on sale.  They’ve got everything from flannels to wetsuits discounted, and even a number of the new boards.  Erica Kohler, a sophomore at UCSC can’t get enough of it.  “Oh, I love this place.  Everything’s so cheap!  And everyone who works here’s so mellow and pleasant to talk to.  And every weekend they have that tent sale thing in the parking lot.”

If you’ve ever driven down Mission on a weekend, you know exactly what tent sale thing Erica’s talking about.  There’s usually a shop grom sitting under the tent with his sunglasses on surrounded by racks of discounted wetsuits and sale-priced Rip Curl surf swag, and maybe you think he’s asleep.  “He’s not asleep, or at least he shouldn’t be,” Mike jokes.  “I’ve had my fair share of shifts under the tent, and I know how it is.  You get really good at looking asleep, but you’re always so happy when someone comes and talks to you.  So just go talk to him next time.”  It’s a deal.  “And if he doesn’t say anything, just give him a little tickle under the chin.” He’s all smiles, and requested a few parting words:

“Yeah, if you’re looking for some sweet surf gear, or if you just want to hang out and watch some surf movies slash hear my epic jokes (they’re ok), come on down and get you some.”

All in all, the Rip Curl Surf Outlet is a super friendly, mellow shop.  And if you’re looking for a good wetsuit, some cheap clothes, and some good conversation on the Westside, it’s definitely a spot to check out.  Rip Curl Surf Outlet is located on the corner of Bay and Mission, and it holds open store hours from 9:00am – 7:00pm daily.

Mike’s Steez

Movie Most Likely On: Modern Collective

Song Most Likely On: probably something by Kid Cudi

Favorite Joke: What do you call a boomerang that doesn’t come back? A stick…