Judge, Jury, and Executioner . . . Please!

The god of pain descended mid November to distribute summons throughout the state of Maryland.   Letters for jury duty passed from door to door, a dark guardian of civic duty, binding citizens throughout the entire month of December to hours sitting, waiting.  Last Monday I spent my morning at the courthouse, squeezed close to strangers, many of whom appeared irritable, sick, and in need of a Febreeze-ing.    After an hour in traffic, I arrived at the courthouse 8:30 that morning,  ready to serve my country in exchange for my life, liberty, and that pleasant painless feeling in the niche of my back, which sadly abandoned me an hour and a half past lunchtime: “See you later fool!  I’m off to get some enchiladas.”   I had hoped to find myself unfit for trial, donning a racially charged  ‘Han shot first’ t-shirt and scuffed black shoes.  Either the clerk or the lawyers did not notice, or failed to read the warning signs.  Thus, trapped in a jury panel, I shuddered an hour past lunch, my stomach growling and my neighbor’s Old Spice, having expired over two hours ago, began entering the second-stage of rigor mortis.

Normally I don’t mind waiting.  Though the body is trapped, the mind is free to drift through walls, across seas, and into the unknown.  You merely need to uncover the right vehicle.  A good book, a soft quiet place, and some iced tea or coffee and you can easily transcend any uncomfortable situation.  Soar to Mars, hop a train to Sheboygan, or review old episodes of Duck Tales.  Anything’s possible.  Certainly, this philosophy proved the key to surviving long shopping excursions with Mom when I was a kid.   While my mother tripled-checked sales prices, mulling over whether this sweater or the green one at Macy’s would ultimately save her an extra 45 cents, I burrowed through stacks of men’s slacks for private reading time.  There in my nest, I’d wile away the hours until Mom finally gave into her wallet or the store closed.

In the jury room, waiting to be called for the court panel and voir dire (a legal process which aims to weed bias from the jury box), jurors can stretch out, sleep, read, eat, drink, relax.  Yet if chosen, all such amenities are stripped away, separated from sight as they herd us into enclosed cells without windows, water or ample female presence.  It was like high school all over again.  There in the courtroom, we were interrogated.  The judge and the lawyers ask a series of questions regarding the case.  Mostly these matters are cleared in seconds (‘Do you know Lawyer A with oiled scalp?  How about balding Lawyer B who reeks of garlic? No?  Good.’); however,  with more sensitive matters, jurors one by one will approach the bench, discuss issues and concerns for several minutes before returning to their seats.

It’s much like trading players in a game of fantasy football.  The judge attempts to eliminate bias, while the consuls try to exclude unfavorable sympathies.  In a murder trial, those jurors recently suffering from the loss of a loved one may favor the prosecution, allowing their grief to influence their verdict.  Thus, the judge covered all possible ground: previous drug use, past exposure to crime, guns, time spent on previous trials, pedophilia, family eating habits, favorite Christmas carols, NRA membership, Bogart movies, Thursday’s CSI, red herrings, and who’s hotter Edward or Jacob.  It took nearly three hours to sort through it all.

And in the meantime, we could not read, eat, drink, talk . . . simply sit there and stare at the room.  After counting the blue squares on the checkerboard carpet for the third time, I was suddenly struck by the inclination to name them.  “There’s Rob and Betty, their neighbor Carl who had a crush on Betty ever since high school but never got a chance to confess his feelings and so married a blond girl who resembled Betty slightly but only when the lights were dimmed.  Carl’s cousin, Earl, who lives across the street eats roadkill . . . “  And so on, and so forth.

An older lady in blue sneezed loudly next to me as the court clerk began reading the names.  My stomach growled loudly.  I tried laughing it off but no one said anything, their attention focused on the clerk.  Like a reverse lottery, groans issued from the chosen, sighs from those left behind.  They had dodged the bullet.  Another number, another mutter of disappointment.  My heart beat fast, sounding in my throat and my legs.  I tried to be stoic about my situation.  Serving on a jury wouldn’t be so bad, an interesting experience.  Great to talk about afterward, and escape the duty for another three to five years.  Right?  Then as if in answer, claustrophobia overwhelmed me.  I needed to move, to breathe, to escape these four walls.  I considered holding hostages with book in hand, threatening paper cuts and poetry recitals.

“Juror #154, come and sit in jury position #12.” A lady rose from the front row, wearing a plaid shirt and a purse the size of a small child.  She did not seem pleased, and appeared in need of a smoke.

I had did it!  I wasn’t chosen!  Wahooo . . .

“Alternative juror #1 . . .”

Ah, crap!  The alternates!  How could I forget the basics of jury selection so quickly, culminated from years of reading John Grisham novels and Perry Mason reruns.   The culling had only just begun!   Moreover, by my estimation my number was next or at least approaching quickly.  Nervously I stared at my shoes, all other sights having been excused already (#46 you know who you are . . .).    The read off the first number. And then the second . . .

Outside the courthouse, I nearly sprinted through traffic to the parking garage, my stomach sounding louder than Baltimore traffic.  Edmond Dantes himself could not have extricated himself  faster from his prison.  Though after twelve the day felt cold, bleak, yet cheery, the kind that pulls men close to fireplaces, warm stoves, and piping hot chocolate.  God, was I hungry then.  My throat felt sore and unused, a headache loomed to ruin the rest of my day (As well as the next two days.  A parting gift from handkerchief-less juror #305).

My sentence in jury pool had not ended either.  I had been slated to return any Monday this month for selection until chosen for a trial.  My parole proved bittersweet and unless the state took pity on me during the holiday season — indeed if it took pity on anyone, at anytime — I could expect to suffer another trial in a week’s time.  Still as I jumped into my Explorer, it felt good to move about again.

Hooking up my iPod, I deposited my book on the seat next to me and turned the dial to Transsiberian Orchestra.  For the moment, a little Christmas cheer,  guitar wails alternating between ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ and ‘Carol of the Bells,’ was just what the doctor ordered.  My car squealed from the parking lot and began weaving through the city traffic, flying back into the counties and the nearest Barnes and Nobel en route.

Stupid, Stupid, Cow-creatures

Mornings at the Murphey house are typically quite productive.  In the past, my job involved waking early to drive the kids to college and school, visiting the grocery store en route back to the house for some amenities and a Starbucks iced tea.  Since Shannon acquired his license, I’ve been afforded the pleasure of another half-hour sleep before waking to scratch, stretch, and sit at my chair to write.  This morning promised to be quiet and productive, the day gray and contemplative, Pandora performing a piano piece by Yasunori Mitsuda as Word finally loaded and Mom burst into my room to tell me that the Sean’s cows had escaped their pen again.

In case you’re new to the site, my brother Sean keeps cows — heifers to be agriculturally correct — on the family homestead.  Four or five critters of varying ages, mother and children.  Though on occasion butchered, mostly they act as show cattle, breeding and being bred for various farm shows around and outside the state.  We keep them here at the house in pens designed and constructed by my brothers with minute precision, which explains why they’re constantly escaping their enclosure.

Today the Mother found . . . or rather created a hole in the fencing and scampered out into the surrounding woods.  My sister Katie, already late for class and in pair of pink loafers, met me outside.

“Murph,” she said.  “Try to cut her off.  If we lose her in the woods, there’s no way we’re getting her back.”  Not to mention if she manages to find the road, someone could get severely hurt.  Deer as I mentioned one time before cause enough problems for Maryland drivers.  Heifers are at least a hundred times as heavy as Bambi and not nearly as nimble.  They’re ugly, smelly, and dumb as bricks too, but that’s just my own personal bias.

As I eased my way downhill to the barn and the broken paddock, my foot was nearly swallowed in a patch of thick slime that made a sucking noise as I slowly tugged on my trapped shoe.  Sluuluckkk . . .   Due to rain and poor water management much of the area surrounding the barn is essentially a thick muddy swamp.  The pens themselves are no different.  In some spots, the level of muck can swallow the animals up their thighs like prehistoric tar.  Human beings with only hiking boots and pink loafers stand little chance of ever making it out alive.

Luckily the slime would have to wait as the heifer moved deeper into the trees, munching on dry leaves left left on a several fallen branches.  My job as Katie explained — as I possessed no experience whatsoever with the animals — was to get ahead of the animal and cut off its path into the woods, keeping it close to the border of the paddock, while she attempted to lasso it with the holster.

At first, this plan worked well.  I scampered through the forest like Mel Gibson in Braveheart, jumping over logs and through brambles until I felt comfortable enough cut off the animal from the deeper forest.  Katie moved in rope in hand.  Now if I were to graph the family’s  experience with farm animals, it would look very much like a bell curve, peaking in the middle with Sean and falling away with the oldest and younger siblings.  In 4-H I mostly baked cakes and built wooden trashcans from wood kits.  Farming to me is like cleaning septic tanks, necessary but only if someone else is doing it.

Katie raised and showed pigs for years, and thus acquired far more experience with livestock.   As we closed in on the animal outside the fence, I trusted she could wrangle the creature and lead it back safely to the pen.  She . . .

“Hey Murph,” she said eying the large, highly muscular animal.  “So what do you think about switch places?”

“Huh?”

“You know . . . how about you putting this thing around its neck.”  She sounded nervous, imagining no doubt the creature kicking her in the head like a mule or suddenly bolting with her in tow.

“Seriously?”  I was willing to try, but knew instantly that it would not work.  The animal seemed particularly spooked by me, as sensing the contents of my dinner plate last night, smothered in gravy and seasoned to perfection.

“Yeah . . .” she said edging towards me with the rope.  “. . . here.  Oh shoot!”

The cow suddenly took off.  Running along the treeline and back towards the barn.  I too took off into the woods, keeping my distance in case she should suddenly change direction.  We cornered her in one of the old paddocks that share a common side with their current pen.  The heifer was pushing her head through the planks of the broken fence, trying to gain footing in the muck and grime from several days worth of rain to leap through the opening.  We tried to coaxing the animal back among its fellows, but it refused to budge.   As I said, stupid creatures.

Katie sighed.  “We’re going to have to move her somehow.  Let me go up and grab some boots.  Murph, you stay here an block this entrance so she doesn’t get out again.”

And so like some human scarecrow, I stood guard at the cow pen until my sister ran down the hill again, took one step into the enclose and sank down to her knee.

“Ahrg . . . I can’t move.  Murph!  I can’t move my feet.”

“Well, pull!”

“I am you idiot!”  NOTE:  ‘idiot’ was not actually said as much as implied.  Katie routinely does not insult people, even if she wants to.  I chose to add it here, for the sake of integrity.

With that, she jumped onto the fence, and made her way inching along the planks to the corner where the cow stood watching us.  She resembled a cat-burgler, scaling a wealthy high-rise or an dame from the old dime-novels, inching past molten lava.  One misstep and incineration.  Exaggeration aside, if she fell into the mud, no doubt there’d be no coming out again without a shovel and several bottles of Purell.  Quickly, she kicked off the broken board, and after more wrangling, involving the halter, our mother, several shots with the camera phone, a few curses, and some texting to relevant family members, the cow finally jumped through the crack and back into the enclosure.

Among the muck and mire, we then wailed at the broken pieces of the fence, attempting to repair the broken planks.  Hands that have only used a hammer to break open steamed crabs and deflect Donkey Kong barrels tapped steadily at nails much too small and thin to piece winter-soaked wooden planks into place.  Our feet gurgled with every step.  Shloop!  Shlop!  While the cows gathered together and watched with some interest at the stupid humans trying in vain to convince themselves that all was safe, all was fixed.  Those silly animals can never escape from THIS again.  HA!

And with our feet corroding with slime, our skin welling with cold, our minds filled with delusion, we vacated the barn and trudged back up to the house  for hot tea and warm showers.

Party like a Rock Star

Indulged any residual All Hallow’s Eve hunger for the strange and weird with a second helping of ZombieLand tonight in the bowels of our nation’s capital.  Meanwhile Mom, Kate, Bree and  our cousin Kathleen learned about friendship, celebrity, and sequined hot pants at  the Miley Cyrus concert next door.  Having carted my group of screaming girls to the arena (Mom wisely brought earplugs), I strode off to the local theater for a flix, accompanied by a host of lucky fathers, who had managed to escape the two-hour scream-fest in favor of blood-spewing zombies.

Fascination with undead violence is a universal man-love, much like weaponry, alcohol, and mammary glands.  Watching bits and pieces of animated corpses explode or disintegrate, or smashed to applesauce with giant carnival mallets reaches deep into our collective male pleasure nodes.   Imagine yourself armed with only a shotgun or a Ford Excursion (a tank on wheels) mowing down crowds of incarnate demons and your lips begin to quiver ever so slight . . . Heh heh heh.

Unfortunately our arrival at the concert was not half as cathartic.  In an effort to save the environment, Miley instituted a paper-less entry, which meant that we needed to swipe our credit cards in order to enter the arena.  Which meant we could not give tickets to others, driving separately.  Which meant I had to swipe nearly sixteen people into a venue, I myself would not see.  Which meant I was confused as hell.

Luckily Dad solved most of our problems by paying others to solve them for us.  As a kindness for buying the tickets in bulk, our ticket vendor guided the girls inside without any qualms or anxious glances.  I was free to see my show and the girls were free to squeal and giggle loudly at theirs.   We left early from the concert to emerge first-in-line for D.C. traffic, complicated by lane closures and road work, but all in all, we arrived back home healthy, exhausted, and wise enough to stay home for the next two weeks.

In the meantime, I’m off to kill some zombies on the Xbox before bed.  Somehow it just relaxes me . . .

Delayed by Destiny

Many apologies for the absence of posts lately.  In my effort to see my name in print, I’ve been writing non-stop, adding some finishing touches on some of my short stories.  In some cases, the damage is minimal: a little spackle here, a new coat of paint, repair some dangling participles, done.   For others, the internal structure was a mess, infested with confusing plot, ambiguous characters, and one rather egregious split infinitive.

Anyway, if any of you can direct me to some admirable sci-fi/fantasy magazines, I’d highly appreciate it.  Ample thanks and Dasad’s first-born child will be yours.

Seeing as we’re nearing Halloween, I thought to share a little Lux Aeterna with you though until I manage to get my act together.  I’m still a little shaky on my costume this year but might take a page from Jim during this evening’s  Office.  BookFace: the popular social-networking site!

Conversations Overheard While Carpooling Sophmores

“Hey, Murph, have you seen it?” Kevin asked jumping into the car, his shirt soaked in sweat and dirt by hours on the football field.  I unconsciously open the windows, allowing his not-so-fresh scent some other means of escape than through my lungs.  His friend Joe dives into the back seat.  His gear is tossed atop Kevin’s clothes in the trunk, across the back seat or along the dashboard until I vociferously advise my brother to return his socks to his feet.  Once buckled and stowed, we bounce across the dirt parking lot and speed off onto the highway.

“What’s up?” I finally reply.  “Something you learned at school?”

“Huh?  No, ‘course not.”  Clearly a stupid question.  “I saw a hippo eat a midget today.”

“Wha . . .?”

“It’s a Youtube video,” Joe explains.

“At school?!”

“No, on Youtube.”

“Yeah,” Kevin continues excitedly, “this midget is jumping up and down on this trampoline when . . . whoosh!  He flies off into the hippo’s mouth and dies.”

“Oh, um, wow!”  Excitement and concern play on my voice.  Confusion too.  What exactly do they allow on Youtube nowadays?

“The hippo swallowed him,” Joe adds.  “The midget can’t breathe apparently and suffocates.”

“Oh . . . well, I’m sorry for the . . . small man.”

“Don’t be,” Joe smiles.  “It was pretty funny.  And I’m not sure about the dying part.  Edgerson told Frank that in another video, not the one we saw but in another one they show the body, but I couldn’t find it.  So I don’t know.”

“ ‘Course he died. Because hippos are mean, right?” Kevin asks.  “That’s why they couldn’t get to him quick enough, right?  ‘Cause they’ll kill ya more so than lions.”

“Well,” I begin, still rather confused.  “They are quite territorial.  Tourists and hunters have much more to fear from hippo attacks than elephants or lions.  In the water, they’ll rip you to shreds.  But they’re not anacondas, they don’t normally . . .”

“Just like the Ford F150, right?  It’s like the hippo.  All other car companies can’t handle it and die.”

“Uh . . .”

Kevin routinely descends every so often into a diatribe against most of the major players in the auto industry with the minor exception Ford, which he idolizes.  Seriously the company can do no wrong.

“I mean, through hard work and creativity, they made the 1967 Ford Mustang GT 500, greatest automobile the Earth has ever known.  And will ever know.  Ford is awesome.”

When asked why, the short answer is because all other cars suck.  If you foolishly decided to dig deeper, you will come to understand that American cars are superior to European and Japanese motors; that other countries stole our internal combustion engine and thus deserve death for their treachery; that the popularity of Japanese motors can be attributed to the increasing populations of stupid hippies; that despite it also being American made, Chevy cannot compete with Ford on any level.

“They try.  Again and again, they try,” Kevin reminds me finishing the last of my iced tea.  “But in the end, they fail.  Simple as that.”

“Okay but don’t you think Kev that . . .” My attempt at interjection.

“It’s like that Toyota commericial.  They’re so full of crap.  Oh yeah, we can drop a Toyota from a building and it will still work.  We’re so great, but we’re in pieces.  Ha, the Ford could do that and still haul a load of bricks to . . . to New York.  Stupid foreign cars.  And you know what . . .”

“What if it’s a really tall building?” I interrupt.

“Huh?”

“Like the Empire State Buildilng.  What if we drop it from there?  I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t be able to haul brick anymore . . .”

“The Ford could take it,” Kev replies confidently.  “Definitely.  It could take on the Loch Ness Monster . . .”

“What?”

“From the commercial,” Joe whispers from the back seat.  “The Loc Ness monster grabs the car, sucks it underwater, and spits it back out.  It drives away undamaged.”

“Oh yeah . . .  Without even any kelp on it too.”

“That’s how great Ford is.  If it can take that, it can take anything.  No foreign piece o’crap can do that.  It would . . .”

“What if we drop it from the Empire State Building onto a trampoline and into a hippo’s mouth?  Would it survive that Kev?”

“Okay, just shut up.”

“Those hippo’s are mean.  I don’t think it could survive that dude.”

“Shut up,” he said reaching for the volume dial.  Blink 182’s monotonous guitar riffs burst onto the radio.  I chuckle to myself the rest of the way home.

West Coastin’: Last Call

In those final days, our adventures kept us tethered close to Anaheim, cleaning our hotel rooms, gathering souvenirs, and worrying that the airport would not choose to jettison nearly a thousand dollars worth of wine (Mom’s frequent and incessant doubts, to be honest, worried me.  I imagined ourselves forced to drink thirty-six impounded bottles in the airport terminal only to miss our flight or have our stomachs pumped – whichever came first.).

At the time, we were quite content to remain within an hour of the hotel.  Mostly we focused on our stomachs, sampling local bakeries and restaurants recommended by various family and friends . . . and the internet.  I should note here that this form of research notoriously tests wills and tempers, breaking friendships and ruining meals to the tune of ‘But . . . but they said it was good!’ and ‘How can so many people be wrong?’

Advice as Tolkien writes often is a dangerous gift . . . as all courses may run ill.  Yet in the case of dining, this can be taken quite literally.  A bad meal can ruin evenings, sending the unlucky diner tumbling into the bathroom, hugging about the toilet for days.  Good advice is of course aimed to prevent this, yet even precluding sickness, the combination of high expectations, modest fare, and poor atmosphere alone may ruin any meal.

Many people have a habit of recommending hole-in-the-wall restaurants, small cramped cafes tucked away from the mainstream and thus more expensive dining halls, promising excellent fare and original tastes in exchange for unassuming environments (i.e. fly-encrusted tables and claustrophobic dining where you are practically sitting in your neighbor’s pasta bowl).  In such cases, originality and a good story or two is the true fare, not the food.  At one such diner back home, my efforts to dislodge myself from the table and visit the bathroom nearly forced the entire dining room out into the street.

I never relish throwing away money on expensive meals, yet the old maxim often holds true: you get what you pay for.

Yet as mentioned before, the driving force for this trip was food, and so we chose two restaurants recommended by friends and family back home before flying home.  In both cases, the restaurants were stationed an hour from Anaheim’s border, and so once again we boarded our Sebring for another road trip.

Our first stop gave us hope.  The Karen Krasne bakery in San Diego greeted us with dozens of freshly made cakes, pies, cookies, and assorted baked goods.  Apparently the selection constantly changes depending on the whims and moods of the cooking staff, thus no dessert menu is given; our waitress asked us to step up front and select from the gooey pastries, creamy custards, and chocolate dripped cakes.  Moreover, the entire staff was made up of well-dressed women, a charming feature for three guys on vacation.

“You guys should look in the back,” Dasad said, returning from the bathroom just as his chocolate sundae arrived layered in home-made chocolate syrup.  I dug into my own dish: shredded coconut blended with dark chocolate and molded into the shape of an evergreen tree.  Our waitress, a beautiful blonde model, smiled at three of us digging into our desserts.

“What?  Did you see them make anything?” I asked, patting the chocolate from my lips.

“No, it’s just that everyone in the back is rather . . . homely or male.  They must shuttle all the beautiful girls to the front.  Keep the . . . less than ideal staff in the back.”

“For presentation purposes?”

“Sure, helps with the elegant look, right?  If you’re running a restaurant, you don’t assign a cranky morbid waiting staff.  You get someone perky and energetic, keeps the customers happy.  Restaurants have décor, atmosphere: paint, landscapes, stained wood . . .”

“. . . basketball hoops, jungle gyms, giant rat mascots,” I added helpfully.  Jay ignored us both and stared without reserve at the bartender, drying martini glasses near the cash register.

“Shut it.  My point is why not hire attractive people too?”  Dasad asked pointing his spoon at me.

“Well, the reverse might be more accurate also,” I said, after some consideration.  “Happy competent people are more beautiful, thus more likely to serve food.”

“Perhaps.   Anyway, I’m not complaining and it’s not sleazy.  They don’t sell wings and tank tops.  The separation was just very apparent to me.”

“That’s cause you’re a perv,” I said, chewing on coconut.

“Shut it . . .”

Satisfied both body and soul, we waddled outside with three slices of chocolate cake.  Our gastronomic odyssey continued.  Dasad’s cousins had made mention that a truly great roasted chicken dwelled in the heart of L.A. so after dessert we drove north to see about dinner, finding the small establishment in a small strip mall just off Sunset.  It was a little past four when we passed through Anaheim and collided with rush hour traffic into L.A.  Moreover, neither Jay nor Dasad knew where to go, and after consulting Google (Thank Heaven for the iPhone; without the maps, restaurant reviews, and Journey videos – ‘Don’t Stop Believin’ is essential for the long car rides – we would not have survived.), we located the place on the corner of what looked like a strip mall.

Parking was sparse, but we found a space wedged against the wall of the next building, adorn with graffiti and ‘Spaces for Customers Only’ signs.  We kicked coffee cups across the small lot before entering what looked like a school cafeteria: plastic neon orange seats, wobbling tables, overhead menus misspelling chicken with the number 1.  Not exactly what I imagined but honestly, having arrived, the unassuming atmosphere excited me a great deal.

“Finally,” I thought, “A genuine culinary diamond-in-the-rough, known to few, appreciated by only the culinary elite.   The perfect fried chicken . . .”

Yeah.  So the chicken was . . . well, chicken.  Nothing particularly interesting or special.  The seasoning – if any – was on par with the local supermarkets here in Maryland.  Based upon the recommendations, we had expected something extraordinary, a gastronomic masterpiece: savory chicken rotisserie, a roasted bird dry rubbed in garlic and oregano, dribbled with succulent juices, perhaps even infused with warm stuffing or berry compote.  Instead they handed us an animal one would expect beneath the heat lamp at 7-Eleven: good but hardly worth the commendation.

Our late night snack . . .

The meal had a similar effect on Dasad who as I recall cried aloud at the lack of hearty seasonings.   Yet last weekend, a month after returning to Maryland (our wine arrived safely much to Mom’s chagrin and utter joy) while driving out for a late evening flick (The Invention of Lying in case you’re wondering; another disappointment) I learned that online reports seem to have affected a change of heart:

“You know that chicken wasn’t that bad,” he admitted.  “In fact, it was probably the . . . best I’ve ever had.”

“You said it sucked at the time,” I countered calmly.  “That the bird had no real flavor.  That to Californians, chicken must be some rare delicacy in order for this ‘meal’ – I believe you used the air quotes – to entice so many . . .”

“I did not use air quotes.”

“Okay . . . but you did suggest KFC might be more authentic . . .”

“Yeah but . . .”

“Also if Gordon Ramsey had visited the place, he would have F-bombed the whole block to outer rims of Hell.”

“Alright already,” Dasad said, sighing behind the wheel. “I had expected more, but so many people online praise it.  We must have missed something.  Millions of people can’t be wrong . . . whoaaaa!” The car suddenly braked, veering to the shoulder as a herd of deer bounce nonchalantly across the highway

“Millions of people oppose hunting too,” I muttered as the Acura crept tentatively onto the highway again.  “Experience is everything.  My point is you tasted the chicken and left unimpressed.  I remember that much.  How can you be swayed otherwise?”

Dasad seemed to consider this a bit, diverting his attention every so often at the trees to the right of the car.

“No . . .,” he said finally. “We probably just did not order the right thing.  Like that In & Out Burger.  Apparently there’s a secret burger that’s not on the menu.  Everyone orders it, but you have to know.  We couldn’t because we didn’t.  Yet those who have tasted the burger say it’s incredible.”

“What?  Do they press two layers of paper-thin patties together?  Add more lettuce, tomatoes, and secret sauce to make the burger appear thicker?  To hide the absence of real meat?” I asked sardonically, trying to flush out my own feelings for these on-line gourmands.  Unrivaled majority support for anything only proves to heighten my suspicions.

“Either way you order it, dude, it’s still fast-food.  They don’t keep fresh ground beef stored in the freezer waiting for some knowledgeable customer to speak the secret code and unlock the invisible menu.  Pleease . . . just accept your own first impressions.  It sucked . . . deer to the left”

“See ‘em.”  This herd feasted peacefully in the middle median, potential torpedoes ready to leap into traffic.  “So what’s for dinner?”

“Uh . . . Sushi?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Good, a month after California and I’m dying for yellowtail.  The last month has been murder too.  Wanderlust has set again . . .”

“Ha,” Dasad laughed.  “Whereto now?  Montana?  Mexico?  Europe?”

“Or Japan,” I smiled.  “You know me . . . I won’t be happy until we’ve circumnavigated the globe.  In the meantime, turn up the radio.  You can hear my warbled voice until we reach the restaurant.”

---

And so our journey to the West Coast ended.  We’ve only opened one bottle of the wine so far – Mom learned of the cost and refuses to open more.  I’m still considering our next destination, possibly overseas or near a comic convention.  Dasad and Jay returned to their jobs in good spirits, while I returned to my laptop and my stories.  All in all it was a great time.  In closing, I wanted to post some traveling music, a song that sped up time through wine country and back down to San Diego again in our cramped Sebring.  Thankfully our caterwauls have been excluded from this version:

West Coastin’: Daring Disney

Dasad, I discovered had never experienced the beautiful chaos that is the Disney theme parks.  This realization shocked me a little, as Dad has our yearly exodus to Florida planned and booked at least a year in advance (Typically, the week after returning to Maryland, growls are heard, demanding our schedules for next summer).  Visiting the familiar turnstiles and tourist-packed ‘lands’ percolate the senses the way home-baked cookies must entice wayward travelers.  The cries of children, the scent of sugar roasted almonds, and even the sight of swollen lines carried the sweet warmth of remembrance, of past adventures en mass: nearly twenty or so brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, aunts, mothers, fathers, and grandparents.  Nearly a continent away, I walked through the park nevertheless enervated, ready to show my friends an excellent time.

Yet Operation Zip-iddy-do-dah – as I christened it – nearly ran aground, encumbered by a few unforeseen issues: 1) Dasad suffered from severe motion sickness and 2) Jay constantly believed he was boarding some infernal deathtrap.  Luckily most of Disneyland’s attractions are relatively loop-free, thus saving my shorts from Dasad’s projectile vomit.  The second proved much more awkward.  Jay appeared quite intent to avoid any and all attractions.  The fact that five-year old girls giggled as they disembarked from their rocket or jeep or flying-elephant without any visible scarring or burns did little to convince him.

Honestly the risk of severe injury and dismemberment were a hundred-fold more likely in the backseat of the Sebring.  Curling along the coastal cliffs . . . in the fog . . . at night . . . nearly twenty mph over the speed limit . . . with Dasad behind the wheel, we skirted Death so many times that I swear to exploding fists with St. Peter.  Heck, there were periods when the fog drifted down from the mountains, yellow lines and steels railings faded into the darkness; had we sailed off the edge of the world no one would have noticed.

Still good Catholic boys that we are, Dasad and I took advantage of his brother’s anxiety in order to offer some consoling words:

“Murph’s more likely to get laid than you are to get hurt, Jay.”

“Seriously?” Jay asked, gazing ahead.  Screams of children echoed down the fiberglass tunnel to the Indian Jones ride.

“Wait a tick, my chances are that high?!” I stammered.  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

My eyes alighted on the cute Disney girl in the safari shorts, ushering guests into the Indiana Jones jeep.  Jay’s eyes alight to the adjacent sign that mentions something about pregnant women, severe backache, and possible blindness.

“Uh . . .” Jay stuttered.  “ Still I don’t know about this, guys.  Maybe I should get off and grab a drink or something.”

“Don’t worry man,” I said soothingly.  “You have my word, you won’t die.  Broken and shattered in several key locations sure, but never dead.”

“Yeah,” Dasad agreed, patting his little brother’s shoulder.  “We’ll ensure nothing bad happens to you.  Even if you fly from the vehicle, this hand will never let you go, okay?”

“Well, unless you have to yawn,” I remind helpfully.

“Sure.  Or maybe blow my nose.”

“Or scratch your . . .”

“Exactly.  Otherwise, this hand,” he said holding his fist high in the air.  “Is like iron.  Tougher and more dependable than the safety features in our vehicle.”

“Which are still quite formidable!”

“Shoot it fell asleep . . .”

“Uhh . . .” Jay groaned.  “I feel sick.”

Needless to say, irony did not have its way, and Jay survived the sharp turns and sudden drops without too much internal injury or bleeding.  As for the mental and physical strain, well . . . only time can tell.

Apart from the size, few differences exist between Disneyland and Disneyworld’s Magic Kingdom.  Sure, the castle might be a little smaller – from my perspective akin to its relations on mini-golf courses – and two or three extra attractions may adorn the landscape: the aforementioned Indiana Jones ride and the Matterhorn to name a few.  Yet the entire park felt familiar, homely, and for the first time during the entire trip – notwithstanding the local Borders – a wave of calm washed over me.

Since I can remember (and probably before) Mom and Dad packed up my siblings and I in an old twelve-seater Ford van for our yearly exodus to Florida and Disneyworld.  Returning to the familiar Main Street, assorted ‘lands’ and hour-long lines recalled memories of my family and our various adventures together.  And when you’re twenty-two hundred miles from home, such reminders are very welcome.

Dasad must have perceived my enthusiasm or caught a fraction of it himself, as we toured the local souvenir shops, tried on hats, and jumped from ride to ride.  At any rate, apart from the commenting on the price of lunch, his cynicism drained away and we talked excitedly about past vacations in Florida.  Jay for his part seemed constantly on edge, fearing that we might attempt to board a vehicle more thrilling than It’s a Small World.

'How do you know I'm mad?' asked Alice. 'You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'

We had planned to visit the theater again that afternoon for one last flick, so we passed the time exploring the parks and engaging each other in various tests of will.  Most of the remaining attractions did not present a threat to Dasad’s sensitive stomach, such that he eagerly anticipated the Tower of Terror, intrigued by my stories of Dad grappling with my little sister as she floated out of her seat belt.

“There is no way a ride can induce weightlessness,” he asserted, daring the experiment.  As I explained, the ride rapidly rockets your ‘elevator’ up and down thirteen stories in total darkness.

“By the second or third fall, you feel as if you’re floating in the air.”

“Okay, we’ll see about that,” he said.  “Come on, Jay.”

Jay of course wanted nothing to do with any more rides and opted to play with his iPhone while we tested our experiment, thus failing the first test.  Dasad learned about induced weightlessness and I annoyed several old ladies, while waving my arms in the air (Just before plummeting, my hands obscured their faces entirely in the souvenir photograph.  They were not especially pleased about that.).

The second challenge proved nigh near impossible: besting Dasad and a frozen chocolate-covered banana at the ‘awkward game.’  Don’t ask.  Trust me, some foods should never be consumed by men publicly (or any other occasion for that matter).

Lastly, Dasad and I concocted pick-up lines while waiting for our turn at the Matterhorn ride, daring each other to unleash them on the unsuspecting ride operators escorting us into the snug bobsleds. The results proved too hilarious and absurd to repeat (most involving some combination of ‘mountain,’ ‘Dumbo’ and ‘magic kingdoms’).  Arriving at the gate, we both chickened out, lest we upset the cute Mouseketeer or alert the Disney guards stationed nearby, fingers itching to taser some unsuspecting guest – or fire-bombed by fairy dust as they tell the kids there.

Disney winery

We left the park shortly after two or three o’clock, to catch Julie and Julia at the Downtown Disney theater.  A decent flick (After Mama Mia, my respect for Meryl Streep has wavered but her role as Julia Child is redeeming), the movie delved into the process of creation: books, food, and online diaries.  Afterwards I considered investing in another blog.

“Guys,” I said, waving my arms back and forth excitedly.  “What do you think?  Five-hundred recipes in a year.  Awesome idea.  I could journal something like that!”

“Yeah,” Dasad agreed.  “But you need focus.  Documenting something interesting . . . and original.”

“Travel?” Jay offered.

“Nah, too vague.”

“Plus too expensive,” I sighed.  “Though hitchhiking my way through the ‘1001 places I need to go before I die’ does sound fun.”

“It’s been done before,” Dasad mused.  “You need something more unique.  Some personal assignment that interests you.  No food though . . . That’s been done to death.”

“Agreed.  Cross off movie and book reviews too.  Everybody has opinions.  Mine are no more intriguing than countless others.”

“Yeah . . .” my friend mumbled. “But it should be something interesting to you . . .”

“Hey, what about today?” Jay asked.  “Why not visit various theme parks and write about your day there?”

“Hmmm . . .” I considered.  “Not a bad idea, but you’d need to come with me . . .”

“Wha . . .?  Why?”

“It’d be no fun otherwise.  Your awkward moans and groans would make for some awesome reading.  Plus, not all theme parks are as respected and well-maintained as Disney.  There’s a good chance one or both of us may die gruesomely, ripped to shreds by mechanical arms or steel gears.  That’s what makes it so interesting.  The drama.”

Jay paled.

“Maybe we should take another look at food, sushi . . .  After all why break from what works, right?  I’d feel much safer with poorly prepared blowfish than carnivals, anyhow.”

Next time, taking Jay’s advice: more food and our final days in California.

West Coastin’: Of Meals and Temples

‘Last scene of all

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.’

Our post-Mass breakfast

Sunday morning, crawling to the bathroom, my sense of touch had the nerve to up and leave me.  Even after stubbing my toe on one of the wine boxes, the numbing sensation in my accelerator foot had lingered long after escaping our Sebring; moreover, my sense of balance insisted that my body was floating underwater.  This of course pointed towards some livid dreamscape, and as I lay there considering the possibility of that mermaid appearing again, Dasad woke.  Damn.  Another night Ariel, my love.

“Dude, what are you doing?”

“Wondering why I lost feeling in my legs . . .”

“No, on the floor,” he yawned.

“Oh, I tripped over one of the boxes in the dark.  On the way to the bathroom.  So very dark in here,” I pondered.  “When you close the blinds like this, its amazing how inclined you are to believe it’s two in the morning.”

“It is two.  Go back to sleep.”

NOTE: I may have imagined all this.  Throughout much of the trip, the line between dream and reality continued to fade and establish itself elsewhere, like the world seen through the bottom of a wine glass.

At any rate, we woke (later?) Sunday morning quite exhausted and indescribably drained from our six-hour exodus to Anaheim, in no mood whatsoever for early morning mass.  Yet sloth could not have its way.  Mothers – especially mine – possess an innate knowledge of their children’s foibles, both mortal and venial, and before we got that phone call, I roused our troops early and ushered them out the door.

The theater at Downtown Disney

Mass in California differs little from services back home.  My presence was still something of a minority, trading in a congregation of aging seniors for young Hispanics and Asians.  Nor did I quite grasp the point of the homily, a heavily accented digression into the meaning of faith, a topic which my own pastor would have muddled with several multi-layered tangents and an unnecessary explanation of didacticism – whatever that means.  Even the church’s heavily stylized windows displays and murals complimented my own: a tangled collage of pictures and symbols buried deep within colorful stained glass, like something by Seurat broken and reassembled with Jolly Rancher shards.  Yet Anaheim’s depiction of the Annunciation of Mary gave me pause.

Along one of the walls, Mary communes with an aged angel; in their midst a dove descends, a red beam fired from the bird’s beak pierces the Blessed Mother.

“It was like a holy laser beam had been shot into her chest,” I remarked afterwards to a yawning Dasad.  “I realize the need to conceptualize the Holy Spirit as something more than swirling air currents and fireballs, but doesn’t the divine ‘pregnancy ray’ oversimplify things a little too much.  Hell, they probably stole the idea from a Superman comic.”

“You would know,” Dasad muttered.  “So what’s the plan for today?  LA?  San Diego?”

“You said something about a triple feature.  A day to kick back and watch movies.”

“Okay . . . yeah, let’s do that.  It’d be good to do nothing for one day.”

I refuse to bore you with many of the details that followed.  As is often the case, these rare relaxing moments seldom translate well as good stories, while relating our ubiquitous humiliations and regrets often prove rather interesting – if not downright amusing.  We decided on three flicks, just recently released and from various genres:

• Ponyo – a child’s fable, but nonetheless whimsical and beautifully told
• District 9 – awesome and intelligent; excellent science fiction
• 500 Days of Summer – if you’ve ever downloaded specific music tracks simply to attract a girl; or abhor dating; or simply enjoy honest funny movies

So excellent was the theater fare that without realizing it, we ate little else but stories for the remainder of the day.

You see, good tales possess a unique aroma, such that one might discuss an excellent tale with the same enthusiasm some reserve for fine cuisine or century-old merlot.  This analogy may be a bit off-putting to some, like my sister Katie, who suffers through most books like a sick child with castor oil, yet for bibliophiles the metaphor is all too accurate.  In my time, many books of such excellent vintage have incited periods of prolonged fasting and isolation (the night I discovered Harry Potter springs to mind), only to emerge again physically weak but nonetheless spiritually enervated several days later.

Excellent stories, thus, provide food for the soul.  And if the soul dies, the body follows shortly, right?  Therefore, reading is more important than food . . . or breathing.  For this reason and more, my family worries for my health and sanity.

Nevertheless, having fed our souls well, we left the theater satisfied and finally able to focus on our all-too-needy stomachs.  Late night dining (a little after ten) is sketchy at best, limiting hungry patrons to stale burgers or scraped bean paste wrapped in doughy tortillas.   Luckily we found a 24-hr Subway across the street from the hotel, wedged in between a Mexican take-out and Chinese restaurant that sold grease spiced with chicken fat (noodles were extra).  Jay opted for Chinese and Dasad tempted the Fates by ordering Mexican.  All in all the movies were better, and we returned to the hotel with satisfied hearts and stomachs in need of Alka-Seltzer.

NOTE: the bathroom at the theater was enormous and clean.  This may sound like an unusual topic to mention in closing but those who have traveled far through many a gas station or rest stop restroom can appreciate the joy of stumbling across clean public bathrooms.  It was breathtaking that I actually took a picture of it (thank the weekly matinees that it was empty).

So clean!

West Coastin’: Geek Out

The next morning after a breakfast of oatmeal and microwaved egg sandwiches, we emptied our rooms of bags and wine-stuffed boxes.  Now I mentioned earlier that Dasad had rented a Chrysler Sebring for our travels, a nice unimposing number with four doors, three passengers, and no retractable hood.  The little gray wisp of a car had wandered much of the state with us and performed admirably, but loading the car that morning, the lack of space proved quite a hindrance, much like stuffing an elephant into a clown car.

“So . . . um dude,” I asked, after loading our three wine boxes.  “Where are we going to throw the bags?”

In addition to Jay’s and my bags, Dasad had brought this immense rolling sea chest, which, apart from containing all his earthly possessions, did not fold or bend very well.  In the end we stacked everything in the backseat: suitcases, book bags, food, souvenirs, maps, and somewhere at the bottom of it all, Jay.   Leaving the hotel, I imagined our car as those station wagons you see in Walmart parking lots, stuffed to the brim with bags of clothing, Tupperware, trash, blenders, and every known species of plastic dog, bobbing their heads on dashboard mounts.

We visited Kenwood and V. Sattui Wineries to fill in those extra nooks and crannies left in our boxes, and drove back to San Francisco.

Now as mentioned before, the driving force behind this trip lie with the stomach: to eat authentic Japanese cuisine and imbibe mass quantities of authentic Californian wine.  So far, so good.  Yet apart from the woman in Pismo with the Muppet-mouth, we encountered few instances that truly proved weird or unusual.  My soul thrives off that stuff, one of the reasons I suggested the Wizard World convention at the conclusion of our last cross-country trip.  Also because I like comics.  They make me happy.

As we retraced our steps from last night, I noticed a few of the streets had been closed off, barricaded for the festival.

“Look at the crowds here, dude.  It’s just like the con last month.”

“Yeah, but no sweaty basement dwellers.  The general public.  And if my eyes don’t deceive me, girls!”

“There were girls at the con.”

“The ones here aren’t dressed like Princess Leia.”

“Yeah, okay . . . so it isn’t perfect, but for authentic Japanese ramen, I won’t hold it against them.”

The street between the Kintetsu and Miyako malls, which we visited the previous night, and the NEW PEOPLE J-pop Center had been closed off earlier that morning to accommodate the expected crowds arriving for the center’s grand opening.  Long lines streamed out the three-story glass building, housing a menagerie of Japanese pop culture artifacts including manga, anime, art, cinema, and music.  An ideal locale to whet my otaku appetite, yet spying that the crowds nearly encompassed the entire block, we opted to return to the malls for lunch and some shopping.

"Soba, udon or ramen?"

Before finding the entrance, we walked through the street festival, sniffing at various foods and pouring through the works of local manga artists.  Dasad found a Bubble Tea stand, attended by kawaii girls in maid attire, who smiled and bowed as we slurped our tapioca.  In the town center, J-pop and J-rock bands sang and screamed (respectively), while nearby otaku tried forming mosh pits with proud parents and any curious visitor who happened by.  We found the mall’s entrance hidden behind a group of teens in Guy Fawkes masks, offering free hugs in addition to the sensation of being violated by a man in a mask.  No extra charge.

Inside we settled for a small ramen café near the hibachi grill from the previous evening.  Now for the record, Japanese ramen is good.  Very very good.  For those of you reading this, nodding your head with a Cup O’Noodles in your hands, I can only say that you know nothing.  The broth was delicious, the noodles fresh, the vegetables real.  I even splurged for a bowl of curried rice, as an apology to our waitress for trying to fake my way out of a language dispute.

“Ramen, udon, or soba?” our waitress asked.  Her accent and my bad hearing contributed to my confusion and ultimately not understanding what was being asked of me.

“Um . . .” I said scanning my menu for clues.  “Uh, I think I’ll try . . . white?  And an iced tea?”

Her eyes told me that I had guessed incorrectly.

“Uh . . .” I muttered, returning to the menu again.  Ummm . . .”  The type of rice?  Pick two sides?  Pork or tofu?

“She’s asking you for the type of noodles, dude,” Dasad clarified helpfully.

“Oh, uh . . . udon, please.  Thank you.”

She nodded and left gratefully, delivering the orders behind swinging door to spit in the white guy’s food unseen.

“You know, Murph,” Dasad chastened.  “You could have just asked her to repeat it instead of masking your ignorance.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” I sighed.

“So instead you made yourself a fool,” he noted.

“Yeah,” I groaned, my head in my hands.  “It’s just not in me to ask questions.  When in doubt, research.  If that fails, fumble about awkwardly until the question is repeated.  Thanks for the save, by the way.”

“Happy to oblige,” Dasad laughed.  “I just wish I remembered to pull out my camera and videotape the whole thing.  That lost-puppy look alone is like gold on Youtube.”

“Thanks,” I said, sighing again.

Ms. Teana-Lanster

Despite everything, the food was quite good — with no evidence of our hostess’s displeasure.  We left then to sample some of Jay’s crepes and gaze at PVC figures of gun-toting ninjas.  Though hoping for some intriguing sculpture or game, I encountered nothing of interest, which disappointed Dasad some, I think, as my temperance afforded him no opportunity for ridicule.  Not that he refused to try anyway, drawing my attention to several poorly dressed heroines and loudly asking if I saw their pantsu, their panties.

“Oooo . . . black,” he squealed.  “Hey Murph, did you see these?  White and blue stripes! Kinky.”

I quickly left before my friend made his way to the adult ‘ero’ section.

In the next store, Jay drew our attention to the Japanese DVD release of the latest Miyazaki film, Ponyo.  The film had just been released at theaters with English dub, and I suggested we spend an afternoon at the theater soon.  My companions seemed eager to catch a flick; Dasad even suggesting we waste a whole day at the movies.

“A triple feature,” he said.  “After all the traveling up and down the coast, we could use a day to sit back and just relax.”

Stawberries, chocolate, whipped cream, and ice cream. Mmmmm . . .

It was close to two o’clock by the time we decided to leave.  The crowds continued to pour onto the streets, and even browsing through the claustrophobic aisles of the local supermarket proved slow work, like those squirrel mazes in the Ranger Rick magazines (Help Mr. Nibbles escape with his nuts to the old willow tree).  Our time in San Francisco had ended; we hopped into our overloaded Sebring and drove south.

Five or six hours later, just before reaching our hotel, hunger struck our small Chrysler, prompting us to stop at the local In And Out Burger in Burbank.  The parking lot was stacked with teenagers and other shady age groups including short old women in Cadillacs  and forty-year old accountants on motorcycles and mopeds.  Dasad felt certain we were going to die.  Or get robbed.  Or both and then sold to the local medical school for surgical demonstrations.

“Dude, I don’t think our car is safe here.”

“Don’t worry,” I said calmly.  “If anything happens, it’ll probably cascade into murder, not theft.”

“As long as no one takes our car, that’s fine.  Remember we still have thirty-six bottles of expensive wine in the trunk.”

Honestly, I had considered opening up a bottle for dinner that night, toasting our successful bounty from the north over burgers and fries, but glancing at the packed crowds inside, I thought better of it.  They might have insisted we share!

We ordered our burgers and sat down next to a group of college-age teens, discussing movie trivia, which I suppose is common among Burbank youth.  Jay came back with our food, and I dug into what was to be the worst burger I have ever eaten in my life.  At least for the three bucks I paid for it.  Admittedly, the vegetables were nice and fresh, but the meat, a thin sliver of beef, was non-existent, nearly half the thickness of a slider, nearly melting into the bun.  Thankfully I had ordered a milkshake too, and we quickly waddled out to the car left Burbank in our dust – which they probably collected, froze, reheated, slapped together with lettuce and tomato, and sold for three dollars.  Mmmmmm . . .

Next: Why aliens and humans will never breed, and Disneyland dreamin’.

West Coastin’: I left my heart . . . where?

After visiting Fisherman’s Wharf for some authentic Boudin sourdough, we made our way along the water to Gheribelli Square for a tour of their modest chocolate shop. Dasad poked his head into a gourmet cupcake place, buying three small cakes for about twelve bucks.  Frankly I doubted the value of a four dollar dessert, which my mouth could consume easily in two bites, but my friend assured me it was worth the price.

“You don’t know, because you haven’t tasted.  If you did, you would know.”

“If knowing means shelling out four bucks for a lousy cupcake,” I remarked, “then ignorance is bliss, man.  I’ll take my watered down iced tea and sugar substitute any day.”

“Weirdo.”

He placed the box on the sidewalk, removing one of the small cakes and placed it atop the lid.  Then adjusting his camera, he proceeded to subject the poor dessert to a mid-street photoshoot.  Jay and I stood back and watched.  He said nothing for the next several minutes, snapping shot after shot, moving only to adjust the perspective or catch the fading daylight. In my whimsy and boredom, I imagined his interior dialogue similar to a Vogue photographer, demanding and masochistic:

“Fabulous!  Now growl for me baby.  Yeaah!  Like an animal.  Strike the sexy pose.  Beautiful!  Beat me.  Whip me!  You make me want to come over there and tear into you.  Incredible!”

Rowr!

Others scurried quickly by, possibly sensing the intensity of the shoot and the risk a rogue shadow or misplaced foot might incur.   Most however fled in fear, frightened that the Asian man with the cupcake might accost them with a few 8×10s and a dozen wallets.

We walked down to the waterfront then, near the Maritime National Historic Park, where swimmers weaved laps in the man-made lagoon between colored buoys; ferries, tugboats and century-old clippers bobbed up and down nearby, reminding the athletes why mankind never evolved fins.  Accustomed to the murky corpse-laden waves of the Inner Harbor, watching the divers spit water in and out of their mouths made me sick, and we decided to continue our tour along a concrete walkway that extended out into the bay, forming the north-western edge of the lagoon.  Most of the path appeared damaged, cracked and crumbling into the sea, and thus barricaded for repairs.

“Watch how you’re holding the box, Jay!” Dasad shouted as I stared across the sun-drenched fog at the Golden Gate Bridge.  “You’ll smear the icing!”

“Huh,” Jay shrugged.  “I wasn’t tilting it or anything.”

“There’s a right way and a wrong way.  I thought it was common sense.  Look half the chocolate is on the box.”

“The heat probably had something to do with it, man,” I said.  “You can’t expect to carry that stuff around without messing them up a little.  Why don’t we just eat them now?”

Dasad said nothing – I took that to mean ‘No’ – but took control of the box as we continued our walk around the Maritime Park.

By now, long time readers should be accustomed to my frequent use of hyperbole, such that my friend often criticizes (i.e. mocks) my reliance on (i.e. addiction to) superlatives:

• ‘Dasad, come play Arkham Asylum.  It’s the best game I’ve ever played, ever,’
• ‘Hey Dasad, did you click on that Youtube link, I sent you?  Wasn’t that AMV the greatest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole entire life?’
• ‘Mankind, only really needs three things: iced tea, books, and a store to purchase both.  Everything else can pretty much be jettisoned into the sun.’

Thus, I suppose that my opinion carries little weight in the eyes of true cynics, yet I assure you that staring at the city from the mouth of the bay ranks as one of the most beautiful sights on our trip.  San Francisco seems to roll, undulating as it approaches the water like an ocean current,  dragging its inhabitants — not unwillingly — towards the shore and out to sea.  Of all the cities this country bumpkin has visited in his short life, most thick with smog, murder, refuse, and hobos (I’m looking at you Denver), San Francisco alone captured my heart.

While my friend snapped a few shots of Alcatraz, I noticed the fog had lifted around the Golden Gate Bridge.  Sailboats gliding across the foreground made for some nice shots, and turning, my feet accidentally kicked Dasad’s cupcake box, sending it skidding a few feet and into a shallow pothole.  Oops!  Grimacing, I forced my eyes upward, but he hadn’t noticed (or decided to say nothing).  Jay had though and made for the railing to laugh.  How the collision would damage the integrity of the cake, I can’t say, but to be careful I gave the box a wide berth and made for the rail.

After a few hours, we left the waterside and drove eastward towards the baseball stadium to meet up with Dasad and Jay’s cousins, who live in town.  The couple who I will – with their forgiveness – name George and Alice for the sake of anonymity were quite kind and offered to take us out for dinner.  We admitted not having visited Chinatown yet, but upon hearing that our raison d’etre in California was to sample authentic Japanese cuisine, we drove off towards Japantown.

“Yeah, so the mall extends throughout the both these blocks,” George said, parking beneath an extensive shopping complex that spanned nearly two blocks, connected through various bridges and outside auditoriums.  “The food here is great, if you know where to go.  Otherwise it gets a bit touristy, though never as bad as Chinatown.”

We emerged into the mall, decorated with banzai trees and small ponds with trickling waterfalls.  Several of the signs and notices taped on store windows were written entirely in Japanese.  I recognized a few characters, but not enough to piece together the advertisement.  Still pretty awesome for an otaku, obsessed with Japanese culture.  They even had a taiyaki stand and a noodle shop and a . . .

“Jay.  Jay!” I whispered.  “Look an anime shop!”

As do I, Hello Kitty. As do I.

One of the local stores befitted their window display with Gundams, figures of sword hacking female ninjas, and Pokemon cards.  Further down the corridor, we passed a bookstore stacked with Japanese novels, magazines, and row upon row of un-translated manga.  Then atop the land-bridge connecting the next block’s shopping center, we passed a small sushi café, which entertained guests with Miyazaki films from hanging television screens: Kiki’s Delivery Service and Howl’s Moving Castle.  Just below shelves of translated Naruto and One Piece manga to peruse while dining, with cat-eared waitresses balancing orders in frill-laden dresses.

“Dude, I’ve died and gone to heaven.  This is where geeks go, when they’ve been good and refuse to download fan subs.  I’m sure of it.”

Jay elbowed me and pointed to several kids, feasting on fruit-wrapped crepes.  Whipped cream and chocolate left their marks on their faces, but no one seemed to mind.

“Are crepes even Japanese?” Dasad asked.

“Who cares,” Jay said, nearly licking his lips.  “They look delicious.”

“Look downstairs.”  My two companions gazed where I gestured franticly.  “A noodle shop.  Like in Naruto!  We can get some honest to goodness Japanese ramen.”

“And strawberry ice-cream crepes with bananas!”

“And anime and ninja-girl figures!”

“Yeah,” Dasad sighed.  “Too bad we’re leaving tomorrow.  Shame really.”

The realization undermined our enthusiasm a bit, much like a torpedo beneath a merchant vessel.  Jay and I began to pout, when Dasad’s cousin pointed out a flyer taped on the window of the restaurant.  In bright colors and English text, we read that tomorrow Japantown would hold a Kawaii! Festival, featuring live Japanese J-pop bands, the grand opening of a museum to Japanese pop culture, and a loli fashion show.

“Hmmm . . . maybe we could stay for another afternoon,” Dasad mused poring over the leaflet.

“What changed your mind?” I asked with a smile.  “The museum opening or the nubile goth fashion show, young girls in frills and lace?”

He would never say, citing something about needing to taste authentic ramen and bubble tea, but both Jay and I suspected otherwise.  The dirty old man.

For dinner, we ate a hibachi-style restaurant, equipped with gas-powered grills in the middle of our table, where we cooked our meals ourselves.  Back home, I was more accustomed to the teppanyaki Japanese steakhouses, where chefs wheel in their carts full of raw chicken and shrimp to our table, whirling their knives and ignite billowing holocausts that left my uncle petrified and missing an eyebrow last June.  Here in San Francisco, we ordered a vast array of raw meats bathed in various sauces to be grilled ourselves over tabletop hibachis.  The concept at first struck me as rather lazy (‘So we’re paying you for the honor of cooking our own food?’) but proved rather fun in the end.

We left the restaurant long after closing, our bellies full and absent of – noticeable – E. coli poisoning (Wahoo!).  The waiters waved us off, eager I’m sure to finish cleaning our late night feast and tuck in themselves.   For our part, the hour was late, and we planned to visit one or two wineries before returning to the city; and so after many thanks to Dasad’s cousins for the tour and the excellent meal, we returned to our hotel.

Dasad opened the cupcake box then, and we held off sleep for one last midnight snack.  My friend reveled in their taste and exquisite flavor, decadent chocolate and smooth icing.  I downed mine in two bites, relishing the delicious flavor of four whole dollars sliding down my gullet.

My dreams that night were filled with exploits of zombies (a house favorite in my nocturnal theater) rampaging through the local malls, where I whittled away my hours slaying undead hordes and perusing shelves stocked with anime and video games.  A vision!  I prayed so.

Tomorrow: Japantown, Disneyland and our day of rest.