"One More Kiss Before I Go"

A few weeks ago, before a venture to Lake Arrowhead, my family and I had lunch at Spring House restaurant in Hesperia. Somehow the conversation made its way to music and concerts, and a man seated across from us (who felt compelled not only to break into our conversation, but also to inform us that he was in a band) told us about an open mic night that happens every Friday. Because it is Hesperia, the mic obviously was not open for poets or anything. Instead, according to the musically inclined interrupter, the open mic was for musicians from all different kinds of backgrounds.

Flash forward to 7:04pm tonight in the Super Target in Hesperia. I received a phone call from my dad.

“Hey.”

“Dad. Wow, it’s so weird that you called because I was just talking to mom about this record player they have here at Target that I think would be a great investment for you. It’s portable, closes like a suitcase, plays 33s 45s and 78s, has built in speakers, and should be mine.”

“How much is it?”

“$72. I asked mom about it but she told me to ask you, and I mean we don’t have to get it today but I mean, you know, just for future reference.”

“Well… Hey remember that guy in Spring House who was telling us about the Friday music thing in Hesperia.”

“Yes.”

“Where did he say that was?”

“I don’t know. Behind Auto Zone or Kragen or something. Why? Do you want to go?”

“Well, I was thinking about it.”

“Hmm, well mom won’t want to go, but I’ll go check it out with you.”

“Really? Because I just feel like I need to listen to some music.”

“Yeah, it sounds fun. We’ll go after dinner. Now about that record player.”

Click.

Not long after the conversation, my mom, dad, and myself were all sitting at Chili’s eating dinner. I ordered a Chicken Caesar Salad and a Blue Moon beer. Mom got these really good quesadilla things, and dad was enjoying chicken tacos with rice and black beans and a Coor's Light. At 8:30 my brother showed up and ate what my parents couldn’t finish.

We were then suckered into some molten lava desert concoction that my mom and brother devoured. I had been ready to leave for fifteen minutes. I was excited that my dad wanted to go out and do something considering a crazy night for him is making it slightly past Jeopardy! before falling asleep on the couch with only one shoe removed from his feet.

The bill came, it was paid, and we were preparing to leave.

“So, mom, you know you can still go with us if you want.”

“Matthew, I am not going. Are you kidding me? I didn’t even want to go here. I just started my period and all I want to do is go home, wash my face, and watch my old shows.”

“Alright. Point taken. Well dad, it looks like it’s just you and me. Me and the old man.”

“Ah, nevermind. I need to go home and shit.”

"Just a Sad Song with Nothing to Say"

I’ve been trying for the past week or so to come up with interesting fodder for a new blog. The problem is nothing interesting has really happened as of late. I had planned on a big write up on my Carpinteria trip; however, there were only a few good moments that actually require the time to both write and read. So, because my life is so unarguably mundane as of right now, I offer you the very few snippets of slim humor and minor intrigue that have crossed my path since we last were together…

There are certain moments in life that are so perfect it seems absolutely absurd that anything could possibly go wrong. The problem with these moments is they are just that. I encountered one of these fleeting instants on the morning of our first full day in “Carp” (as the locals call it).

There is a nature preserve situated in the middle of the beach and where my family and I stayed. To get the preserve’s walkways I had to hop a small wooden fence. I did so and began my morning run. The air was crisp and wet. I ran through the preserve, down to the beach, and along the shoreline. On the way back, I was thoroughly enjoying life. My heartbeat was up, I was feeling good about the run and my current weight loss, and I could not believe how beautiful the ocean was that morning. Everything was right in my world; I couldn’t help but smile.

As I neared the fence I had climbed earlier, I could see my brother waiting for me on the porch of the house we were staying in. I ran a little faster because I was excited to tell him all about the beach and how the water was ideal for the kayaking we had planned to do. I got to the wooden fence, placed my left foot on the top post, pushed my body up with my other leg, and my perfect moment was over.

As I pushed up with my right leg, my left foot, being slippery with salt water and dirt, slid out and my body lunged so far forward that I did a full front flip over the fence. Desperate to save my head from fracture, I grabbed at the chain link that lined the bottom of the wooden fence. My body kept going, of course, and I yanked the chain link out from the ground. I landed on my back, tried to get up fast, tripped, and fell back down, still clinging to the chain link. I looked up and saw my brother doubled over on the porch. For a second I thought he was convulsing, but soon realized he was laughing hysterically at my misfortune. Apparently the world prefers humor to beauty.

Here is a small part of a conversation my mom and aunt had concerning my two cousins. Back-story: my cousins, both teenagers, had left to explore Carpinteria earlier that evening.

AUNT: Okay, where are they? It’s dark. They have a dog. And they don’t know where they are.

MOM: Oh, be quiet. Back in the old days kids used to walk around with BB guns.

AUNT: But they don’t have a BB gun!

I purchased a beach cruiser from an old man in Apple Valley a few days ago. On craigslist.com the description read that the beach cruiser had been purchased by an old man (not the old man who sold it to me), refurbished, and then left in a shed because the old man who refurbished the bike was too old to ride it. The old man who sold it to me supposedly thought it necessary to add to the bike’s description, “I don’t know why he decided not to ride it. I know a lot of people older than him (he’s 88) who can still ride a bike.”

Also, the old man who sold me the bike was wearing rainbow suspenders. It made me think of a few questions: At what point does a belt not do the job? At what point does a man’s pants only fit him above the belly button? Is it a slow progression or is there an actual day in someone’s life in which he is required to pull his pants up to a certain point so everyone else knows he is, from this moment forward, on his way out? Why are all old people exquisite storytellers? And I don’t mean this in the sense that they all have great stories to tell. I mean it in the sense that every elderly individual I have ever encountered just knows how to speak in a way that makes me want to listen. It could be the most boring subject in the world but I hang on every word because the way they talk is so fluid and filled with smooth little one liners and transitions that I am too young to understand how to employ.

If you want to see this old man, he is on Youtube. He builds these little three-wheeled electric bicycles and is riding them in some videos on the website. Type “John Gunney” into the search box and the videos should come up. They’re not particularly interesting at all, but it is funny to watch the old man ride his electric trike down the street. The background music is entertaining, as well.

I saw a recent photo of Roger Ebert and my heart sank. He is completely unable to speak, his eyes are wide and bulge out of their sockets, and his mouth hangs open all the time. I believe he had a stroke. It was very sad to see. He is still in high spirits though. He uses a computer to speak for him (like Stephen Hawking) and it is with an English accent. His facial expressions are priceless as the computer speaks. I’m happy he is still able to write his reviews. Just sad to see his current state.

Finally, school starts soon. My goals over the summer were to read a good deal of books, come up with an idea for my MA thesis, and lose weight. As of right now, I have started three books and have yet to finish any of them. I had one idea for my thesis; however, it was shot down very quickly by a reputable source. And I was down to 189 pounds before I left for Carpinteria. Lately I have had no desire to run though and my weight has shot back up to 193. “The best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry.” I don’t even know if that is the right response to my unachieved goals. But to be quite honest, I don’t give a damn either.

That Train Set Sail Long Ago

Evidently, when you walk along the beaches in Carpinteria, you see oil on and within the sand because a fair amount of drilling is done in the area. This may or may not be true; I heard it from my mother. Anyway, because of this she, for a cheap pair of flip-flops, forced me into a Wal-Mart.

“If you take your nice sandals out there they will get ruined,” she scolded, as if she knew I had already planned on not listening to her advice. “They drill for oil out there, you know, and that oil will ruin whatever it touches. We can't just throw away money like that. This country is in a recession. Do you know that?”

I thought about suggesting a cheap HAZMAT suit but decided against it.

Later that day, I was walking through the Wal-Mart in Apple Valley with Teresa and holding a pair of bright orange sandals in my hand. By this time we were simply browsing. Why not? We were already there. I decided to check out the DVD section to see if the second season of Dexter was available at a reasonable price. It turned out that the section of television shows was no bigger than both my arms stretched out wide, and Dexter was nowhere to be found. So, I made the next logical move. I went to their bin of $5 movies to search for buried treasure.

While I was staring at yet another copy of Edward Scissorhands, Teresa excitedly called me over to her side. What she was so excited about was a box set of Alfred Hitchcock’s early work. It includes eighteen films and two episodes from Alfred Hitchcock Presents. What a find! I greedily snatched it from her hands and turned it over, searching for one film in particular.

The Thirty-Nine Steps was what I was looking for. Now, I had seen these box sets in Amoeba Records some time ago. At the time, I was there to buy Tim Burton’s Batman, which I also ended up seeing at Wal-Mart. For $7.50 (I won’t disclose what Amoeba charged me for the supposedly “Out of Print” DVD). That is the problem with Amoeba: It is a great place, has a great atmosphere, but is usually a bit pricey, and the faculty is smug and, apparently, liars. Amoeba sold the Hitchcock box sets for $40 each if I remember correctly. Wal-Mart had one of them for $5. And, lo and behold, it was the set that had The Thirty-Nine Steps. What a glorious day.

My reason for explaining all this has less to do with Hitchcock and more to do with J.D. Salinger. According to Margaret Salinger’s memoir, Dream Catcher, one of the author’s favorite films (he has his on reel to reel, not on DVD or VHS even) is The Thirty-Nine Steps. Naturally, being the Salinger extremist that I am, I have wanted to see the Hitchcock classic for a long time now. Don’t get me wrong, I love most anything he directs, but I was going into the movie with a very singular mission: to see if I could find out why Salinger loves the film so much, and possibly uncover vital clues that might lead to revelations in the ongoing mystery that is Salinger’s life and work. So, I'm going to watch the movie now...

Well, I fell asleep. I put the movie in around 12:09 am and fell asleep sometime before 1:00. When I woke up, the woman who I thought had been murdered early on in the film was alive again. Either that or all the actresses from the 30’s looked exactly alike. Also, the main character was running through some hills, or something. Because of my obvious bewilderment, I decided to just turn the television off and go to bed. When I woke up this morning I decided I no longer fancied the idea of possibly zeroing in on Salinger’s mysteries.

Of course, I could talk about the opening scene in the movie in which a man named Mr. Memory works hard to win over a crowd of rowdy Englishmen and does so only to be easily forgotten after a riot breaks out. And I could, obviously, make a connection between that scene and Salinger’s own knowledge of a fickle audience, and link his estranged relationship with the public to his knowledge of their fickleness. But I won’t because the fact of the matter is that I enjoy the mystery. Part of Salinger’s appeal (aside from his amazing writing abilities) is that he is the most sought after literary enigma of the past fifty years or so. But he will not budge. He enjoys his privacy, and who can blame him? Who among us would want, really want, the spotlight blinding our eyes every waking moment? None of us, that’s who.

Therefore, I will respectfully refrain from my attempts at understanding the man responsible for the stories and characters I obsess over. Besides, I’m sure hundreds of people have already attempted the same idea since Ms. Salinger published her memoir in 2000, reaching their own conclusions about the author and his life. In any case, however, the possible answers will never be as exciting as the riddle.

How is Life Proceeding for You, Buddy?

To anyone who gives a damn: my back hurts.

I went to Lake Arrowhead with my family today. It’s funny how a place can get lost in the recesses of memory (before we arrived my brother and I both proclaimed that we had never been to Lake Arrowhead) and then kicked to the forefront by another visit. Upon our arrival, I immediately remembered being there before; it was definitely a long time ago though. As we were walking around the shops I began to remember some sort of a learning center or kid’s museum my mom and aunt took my brother and I to the last time we were there. There were dozens (or it felt like dozens) of small rooms with different activities in each. Bright colors. Squishy foam flooring that resembled puzzle pieces. I don’t remember what I did there. I do remember having fun.

We didn’t revisit that particular place today. Instead, after a long drive of winding roads and complaints from my mother concerning an oncoming fit of vertigo brought on by my father’s erratic driving, we leisurely made our way through the shops that caught our fancies. Somehow we ended up in the Coach store. My brother and I were interested in new wallets. One was black leather on the outside and cream colored on the inside. It was very nice. It was also $119.99. Meanwhile, my mother was eyeing a $798.00 lime-colored purse that had been generously marked down to $699.99 in green pencil. Eventually, after having been made well aware of our own poverty and despite the woman in Coach who was sure that each item in her store was well worth the second mortgage, we exited and decided to try our luck in the Bass Outlet Store.

I found a pair of deck shoes I liked that were $89.00 but 60% off. Later, I found a pair of kids’ shoes that were regularly $50.00 with a 90% off sticker nearby. Suddenly realizing that the store would still make a sizable profit on a five or ten dollar purchase I had to laugh at the “good deals” we all thought we were so special to receive; I also wondered how long those “One Day Only” sale signs had been sitting patiently on the shelves.

My dad walked out of the Bass Outlet with $194 dollars missing from his debit card. I blame this on my mom and the overly excited salesgirl who displayed the kind of bubbly personality that left me frustratingly conflicted between genuine love and pure hatred. She was very good at what she did though, complimenting my mother on every possible buy and treating her like she was the Queen of England.

ME: Mom, c’mon! She already rang us up for the shoes and suitcase.

BUBBLY SALESGIRL: Oh, don’t worry. I’m the sheriff around here (pointing to her scan gun and a plastic badge pinned to her shirt) and I say she can take as much time as she wants. A woman needs quality time to look around…

Meanwhile a line began to grow behind us.

It was my job to drag the new suitcase, which happens to be bright orange and has wheels that squeak as they roll across the ground, back to our truck while my mom continued to shop. Even with my best efforts implemented, I ended up looking like someone who was backpacking through the vast array of “specialty” stores. A hardcore shopper. Serious about my consumer needs. My mother on the other hand, still in the Bass store, looked like a pirate ready to dash through the doors with her booty if anyone tried to take what would soon be rightfully hers. She held the two hats, beach bag (“I can fit a really big towel in here”), blue sun dress, and sandals so close to her chest that she appeared to be the only person around who knew something very important about the pricelessness of the merchandise. Once again I had to make a trip to the truck.

Later, we stopped in an ice cream shop and a very attractive girl behind the counter was going on about some customer who had tried to enter through a door aggressively marked “KEEP OUT. EMPLOYEES ONLY.” According the girl, the customer thought it read, “CUSTOMERS ONLY.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah,” she continued, “I was like here’s your ice cream. Now, if you just go through that door you will find our top-secret customer eating facility that has been made especially for you.”

I laughed as I waited for my double scoop of Rocky Road. When we left she said, “I like you guys. You’re nice. You don’t try to open doors that aren’t yours to open. Have a nice day.”

Naturally, I spilled the Rocky Road on my shirt and shorts. Luckily, my mom had one of those Tide-to-Go pens. It was a rip-off version but it still worked like magic and I stared at the end of the pen wondering what its juicy, stain-removing secret was. Before too long, I came to the conclusion that it was probably some kind of bleach. We walked and ate and watched boats exiting the docks. Every so often I would swipe a bite of my dad’s refreshing Black Cherry ice cream (regretting my own decision of Rocky Road with each stolen morsel). In the water below, the place was lousy with ducks and carp. Outside the water, just beyond the railing, was a little girl who was through duck food into the water. This was a fortunate turn of events for the carp because the duck food sank like rocks the second it hit the water. This made me feel sorry for all the ducks who had waddled over to where their food had been thrown only to get there with just enough time to watch it sink from the reach of their beaks.

We decided to leave after we saw a turtle swimming among the ducks and fish. For my brother it was the highlight of the trip. He loves all kinds of turtles, especially sea turtles. He even has a very proud looking sea turtle painted on one side of his motorcycle helmet. After seeing all the trash and “food” people had thrown into the lake, however, as well as the unidentified brown sludge caked on the turtle’s shell, all I could think about was salmonella and how I probably would not let the turtle, the ducks and fish, or another salesgirl come near me for quite a long time – or at least until they had bathed with a fair amount of antibacterial hand soap.