C and I have been in California on a ten-day road-trip up the coast. Our first stop was LA, where we participated in Frank's wedding at the posh Hotel Bel-Air. I was one of the groomsmen and had the responsibility of holding on to the rings and producing them for the bride and groom during the ceremony. I was not nervous about this task before the day of the wedding, which proved to be an oversight on my part. The wedding planner quickly set me straight. In the hours leading up to the ceremony, she'd stop me every 15 or 20 minutes and say, "Show me the rings!" And it was clear from her demeanor that if I did not have them, she would, in all probability, breath fire and unleash a swarm of locusts on my ass. So I'd dive my cold, clammy fingers into my interior jacket pocket with no small degree of panic, convinced the rings had somehow disappeared between that time and the last time she had stopped me. Because, as you may know already, when things are out of my sight, they basically cease to exist to my brain. Thankfully, the two silver bands remained in my pocket up to and during the ceremony and when the crucial moment finally came, I was able to take them out and set them carefully in the hands of the betrothed without dropping them.

As it turns out, though, I was not able to recite the ee cummings poem that I was tasked with reading without banging the microphone with the clipboard on which the poem was attached. In retrospect, I think the subsequent loud boom which echoed across the lovely green served as a nice counterbalance to the somber poem, which I otherwise read exceedingly well, if I do say so myself. I mean, I'd love to think I have the kind of voice that could bring a woman to tears, but it would have been horrible if one of the bridesmaids had actually started crying, or swooned, or collapsed at my eloquence. So, a little boom of the mic stand. You're welcome.

At the wedding, I reconnected with the groomsmen I had hung out with in Vegas, which was cool. While in mixed company, nobody discussed the bachelor party. Which was good. We just stared at our shoes and shuffled our feet a lot.

After the wedding, C and I went down to Laguna Beach and stayed at her sister's boyfriend's parent's cottage. It was beautiful and magical and all those other adjectives people use for locations like that. We sat on the beach and went to art galleries, and I can say with certainty that, for both of us, the earth moved. Literally. We experienced our first earthquake. A 4.7, which was not quite on the scale of wetting one's pants, but still enough of a shaker to be thankful that you're still of an age where you have reasonably good control of your bladder. We were sitting in a little Mexican restaurant off the main drag. Enjoying our second margarita on the second floor. Then there was a loud rumbling noise and things started shaking. When I say "things" I mean heavy things. Things that don't normally "shake." Like our table. Like my soul. Then there was a little heave thrown in, and just a tinsy bit of ho. As in give her the ol' heave-ho. Like the earth was feeling finicky and just decided to move the building a smidge to the left. On a whim. Just to scratch an itch. It's a strange sensation to feel that the building you're in is moving, especially given the fact that buildings should not, you know, move. The rumble and the shake went on for a good five seconds or so. We looked at the other people's faces in the small restaurant. It seemed to sink in for everybody at the same time that holy shit, this was a fucking earthquake! A few people stood up and started for the door. Then as soon as it had begun, it stopped, and the relieved waiter shouted out, "Tequila!" And we laughed uncomfortably.

For me, the earthquake helped get my mind off the fact that I had lost my Blackberry somewhere on the beach earlier that day. I was feeling kind of down about that, and the prospect of a crushing death under fallen debris helped put the whole thing in perspective. For a little while, anyway. (I'm not that great at maintaining "perspective.") For those who are keeping track, this is the third time I've lost a phone this year. It's still early, though. So don't cash in your bets yet. I have an old Palm Treo which still sort of works and which I have begun using as of yesterday. It doesn't have a holster so there's pretty good odds this one will end up disappearing before too long. Incidentally, if you've texted me over the past week, you may have received the ominous reply "Message Deleted." This is not due to the fact that I hate you. At least not entirely. It's mostly due to the fact that my phone has been deactivated and for some reason this is the response it sent back to C's test text last week.

Onwards ... there was a stop to visit two warm-hearted, lovely women we met four years ago in Costa Rica. They live in the Hollywood Hills, in Laurel Canyon, which has been home to many rock stars and is about as great a location as you can want. A wonderful steak meal. Even better conversation. And Chet Baker on the stereo.

Then we met up with our Dallas Buds, Jeff, Eric, and Kim at LAX and hopped in a rented van we named "TheMitch" for a drive north up the coast. The name has a back-story, but I think it's something I'll leave untold. For mystery and, you know, intrigue and shit. I will say, however, that it had nothing to do with my good friend of that same name and everything to do with a good several hours of hard drinking. Oops. I meant "thinking."

There were stops in Santa Barbara, Avila Beach (I highly recommend this hotel), San Luis Obispo (known to LA'ers as "SLO"), Hearst Castle, Nepenthe, Carmel, Monterey, and finally the San Francisco Bay area, where we spent three nights at C's parent's house. They tried to culture us with a trip to Sonoma and Napa, and I think it may have even worked. We drank plenty of wine. And some brandy. And a few ports. Oh, and an ice wine. And we brought back six bottles from Ledson and two Mondavi Moscato d'Oro, and some fancy vinegar from B.R. Cohn.

Andy and Sabrina met all of us in the city our last day and we walked around North Beach and drank and laughed and talked. And it was just good, is all—to be in one of my favorite places with some of my favorite people.

Three hours sleep the last night. One of those morning alarms that confuses you. Like, why in holy hell is that thing going off and what is it anyway? A long flight back to the Garden State by way of LAX. Hasty pasta followed by dead sleep. Picked up Honey the next morning at her friend Chubby's house. Chubby is a dog about the same size and temperament as Honey only she's black and white, with longer hair, and a curved tail. They roughhouse and chase and smoke cigarettes and talk shit about their owners. I think Honey had about as good a time as we did. Eating cat food and all kinds of treats from the fingers of a seven-year-old girl who, for those ten days, along with Chubby, became her new best friend and let her sleep in her bed.

And Honey didn't know or care that C and I had spent ten relaxing days on the west coast, or that I had lost my phone, or that for five breath-stopping seconds we were in the deep rumble of an earthquake, or that for days after the earth moved and we along with it. And that's why, I guess, it was so good to see her.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Travel  San_Francisco  Friends  Family 

I remember the first time I saw Star Wars in the theater. I was maybe five or six, and I had that wonderful feeling of being completely lost in a movie, like the world I was familiar with had just melted away and, in its place, there had sprung up this whole other realm where people used lightsabers, and moved things with their minds. And I was not just a spectator of that world. I was part of it. I was convinced I had the force. (Still am, really.) And I think I had a crush on Princess Leia. (Still do, really.) And for the moments I watched that movie, I actually lived in that place. For real.

I'm sure there are many, many thirty-something boys (and probably a good many girls, as well) who had the same experience. Star Wars really set the bar for sci-fi/action/adventure movies for us. And I'm going to go ahead and make a bold assertion: despite all the advances in technology and special effects, there has been very little to live up to that bar since. These types of movies just don't give me that same feeling of complete immersion. Maybe The Matrix is one exception. But that's all that comes to mind.

I usually blame myself for this, more than the movie. I assume it has to do with my age, and the fact that I'm probably just more jaded about cinema. But thankfully, this past Wednesday night, the new Star Trek movie proved me wrong. Because it succeeded in making me feel six years old again. And I'm going to tell you this: it wasn't because of the special effects, though they were pretty dang special...and "effective." (I really liked the sound of the ships going to warp, for instance. This was Star Trek on steroids. But it felt good, and not overdone.) The reason I was able to get lost in this movie was because it did what Star Wars did so well back in 1977, and still does well today—it told a story. And it brought to life compelling characters. That's what it's all about, really. And it's sad and sort of disappointing that you don't see it so much anymore.

The new Star Trek movie is first and foremost about storytelling. It doesn't rely on gimmicks. The special effects enhance the movie without being the movie. It's just some good sci-fi drama. Smart. Funny. Character-driven. It even reminded me of that original Star Wars in many ways. It had a similar "raw" feel to it, which is one of the reasons I suppose I've always been more of a Star Wars fan than Star Trek.

There's been a lot of talk about how die-hard trekkies may not like this movie because of the way it's been billed as "not your father's Star Trek." I don't know. I can't really speak for die-hard trekkies, because I'm not one. I didn't start watching Star Trek until Voyager and I still have no interest in watching or catching up on older series. Thankfully, I have a wife who can get me up to speed on the pertinent historical points of the Star Trek franchise. But I can say that it would be a shame to miss this movie in the theater out of some ideological protest. Director J.J. Abrams and writers Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman have done a great job of re-inventing the story line and characters in a way that make them seem entirely plausible (in Star Trek context, that is). They've lifted the characters out from under the weight of past Star Trek movies and TV episodes and have made them seem more interesting and complicated (credit due to the actors, too, of course). More importantly, they have done the seemingly impossible task of preserving the precious Star Trek story-line that existed before, while at the same time creating an entirely new one. This should make everybody happy (but probably won't.)

I'm usually disappointed with today's sci-fi/action/adventure movies. They're often heavy on action and light on plot and character development and the whole experience is just entirely...forgettable. I realize this makes me sound like an old man. And if that doesn't, this will: I usually fall asleep during most of the action movies I watch these days. Admittedly, this might indeed have something to do with my age, but I like to think it has more to do with over-stimulation of the senses and under-stimulation of the brain. I prefer an even stimulation of both.

I'm happy to report that I did not fall asleep during Star Trek. I did, however, forget I was sitting in a movie theater, which doesn't happen very much anymore. It made me feel like a kid again. And it's nice to know that there are still things that can do that. Afterwards, it seemed way too adult to be sipping a Dewars at the premiere "After Party" with C. What this really called for was ice cream.

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Most of the time, Honey does not eat shit. She will always stay clear of her own, and even though she is usually curious about the excreta of other dogs, she generally refrains from putting any of it in her mouth. I'm not sure how to properly explain my relief about this. Pride? I'm proud she doesn't eat dog shit? Normally, you'd be proud of the things your dog does well. Like "roll over" or "stay." It's a feeling built upon affirmation of a job well done, not on not doing the thing that never, ever—no really, never—should be done in the first place. You should not have to feel pride when the animal you love and care for—and who, incidentally, licks your ears lovingly when you're driving in the truck together—does not eat dookie.

Sometimes though, in moments of weakness I suppose, Honey will rub her face and neck in the feces of other dogs, as she did this morning while we were walking in the park near my house. A beautiful, wet morning. A light mist falling. Hardly any people around. Just the green grass growing. And the pond, still and somber. So peaceful. One minute we're standing there, watching the ducks float gently across the water. The next, she's on the ground, rubbing her neck in poop. So unexpected. So very wrong and upsetting.

And how to express the deep sense of revulsion and horror I feel at moments like this? Disappointment? I'm disappointed in you, Honey, for rubbing your neck in dog feces. Oh, but it's so much more than that, really. Confusion? I'm deeply confused, befuddled even, as to why you would do this neck-rubbing-in-shit business. This gets to the crux of it, I suppose, but lacks that flash of anger that accompanies it. Piqued? Irked? Vexed? Almost there.

Enraged—ah, this might be what I'm looking for. Especially when, later, after removing her collar, I end up with the coffee-colored caca on my hand. Nothing to wipe it on. And still needing to drive home. Yes, rage comes very close to what I felt at that moment. But I'm so rarely enraged by anything, really. And I'd hate to be guilty of exaggeration or overstating the truth.

Sometimes it's so difficult expressing my emotions.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Honey