2000 January

Dan goes to work this morning. After breakfast Joan takes me and the kids up into the hills for a hike. I’m impressed by how easy it is for us to escape the city and be by ourselves on a trail twisting up the mountainside by a shady creek. The girls are having a spat, they play and constantly bicker. Joan lets it go, so I do too. Whenever the girls want anything from me I try to withhold it until they can agree. It’s nearly impossible for them, and sometimes they just give up. I walk with Forest, who gets along amazingly well for his size and just needs help over the bigger rocks. We find an orange salamander. He sits willingly in my hand, looking at me with bulging yellow eyes. Brooke is fascinated by him but won’t touch him. When Jenny takes him, another fight ensues and I’m happy to see the salamander escape with his life.

Back at home, Dan returns and takes some family photos. He shows me many pictures from all over the world, especially Nepal. He tells stories about them with a wisp of nostalgia.

I’ve gotten Brooke’s cold. My throat is sore, especially at night. The family’s diet suits me, but at bed time I suffer strong sugar cravings and snack insanely on chocolate, nuts, and fruit - whatever I can scrape up.

Another casual breakfast, then the two families disappear at different times to different churches. The kids will probably ask why I don’t go, but they don’t in front of me. I know Jeanette will be late, so I just enjoy the quiet morning in my own form of worship, awareness and amazement.

Dan comes home, then Joan and Jenny, and finally I spot Jeanette outside. She swoops me away, long cigarette in her mouth, wiggling hula girl on her dashboard. She’s beautiful as always in her dark, stunning, willful way, spiteful of convention. I get strong coffee, which she must forego due to an ulcer. I join her afterward for a German beer. Then we go to her place where we find her husband Dan rushing around getting ready to fly to Pheonix for a project. I swallow a beer and check out the house, which has just been cleaned and thereby looks like Jeanette but with something wrong, too much order.

We take off together again, Jeanette driving like a banshee to the Museum of Jurassic Technology where we laugh together and explore the dark rooms. It’s a wonderful mix of science and mysterious bullshit. I’m especially intrigued by the explanation of George Sonnenfeld’s model of the illusion of memory.

Proximity is what I like best about seeing Jeanette. Our conversation can be stunted, stupid, or just senseless, but it doesn’t matter. There’s something basic about the combination of the two of us that’s a heavy liquid comfort to me, along with an energetic fascination and something like unconditional love. After all the trauma and crap we’ve been through together, it feels good to have discovered this core of our relationship that doesn’t seem to change.

We have dinner. Dan has left. We hit the local bars, first the Smog Cutter, then Good Luck, then she takes me back up the hill to Pasadena. I creep in the back door of my cousins’ place, past Brooke on the sofa, and into bed.

I awake and set forth to find my place in this household. So far all I know is that I’ve commandeered one of the girls’ bedrooms. The house has two wings. I’m on Jon and Clair’s side in Brooke’s room. Dan, Joan, and their daughter Jenny sleep on the other side. In the middle is a large living room and dining room. I relax here and wait to see what happens.

One by one I meet the kids. Forest, Jon and Clair’s youngest, is just learning to talk and is shy to meet me. Brooke, his older sister, is not shy but short on words at first. Jenny, the oldest, is eager to get started playing with me, but breakfast comes first. We eat in the kitchen, disorderly, but praying first. I have cereal and toast, a standby here. Everyone seems distracted and on their own schedule, so I just eat and see what happens. I offer to help, but no one steps forward to orchestrate, so I just passively eat and leave my dishes.

In between playing with the kids I make plans for my stay. I agree to go to church with Dan tonight, as he seems eager to show me something special. Trading phone messages with Jeanette, I plan to spend Sunday with her, conspicuously foregoing Sunday church. Dan mentions their plans for a camping trip next weekend, inviting me along. I don’t commit, but I don’t commit to a departure date yet either.

I’m most comfortable with the kids. Forest is small, and either plays gently with me by himself or gets trampled on by the girls. Jenny is enthusiastic but clumsy, in a growth phase. I have to be careful throwing her around - she’s made of knees and elbows that will bruise anything in reach. Sometimes her enthusiasm borders on aggression. Brooke is more graceful in speech and movement, but has a mean streak that starts many an argument with Jenny. They keep me and their parents busy.

Jon and Clair are attempting to deal with the endless details involved in their move to Thailand from Kazakstan, via LA and Nepal. This is on top of sick kids, plus work and social engagements. They are harried and distracted.

Joan takes up some of the slack, but is a little reticent when it comes to exerting authority over all the chaos in the house. I approach her a few times asking about things I might do to help out, but don’t get much direction. Finally I notice Dan and Jon working in the yard, and Dan gives me a rake and a job to do.

In the evening Dan takes me to church and I find out why he wanted me to attend this particular sermon. It’s a “youth sermon”. There’s a full rock band performing pop-styled hymns. Some kids are swaying, dancing, and getting into it. Dan and Joan wiggle around a bit, casting glances over to see if it’s working on me. All I can do is watch in a sort of stupefied disbelief. I’m grateful when the music stops and the sermon begins.

I appreciate the tutorial nature of the sermon. It explains some translation and conceptual issues regarding God as YAHWEH that are of interest to me. When they attempt to keep our interest with clips from Disney’s “Prince of Egypt,” though, they lose me. It’s the same problem I have with TV news peddling attitudes instead of ideas. They promise experience, but deliver only a sort of surrogate emotional fulfillment. I try not to act too disgusted, but I think it’s clear to Dan and Joan that this won’t be the magic key to my rebellious youthful skepticism. I don’t blame them for trying, it’s what they do, and they don’t know me at all. The Top 40 approach to getting kids into church and selling attitudes to them probably is the best thing to try first, statistically. I don’t respond to the high-pressure sales pitch when the basket comes around either, but many kids around me do.

I get up and ride to pretty Laguna Beach, where I find my way to my Uncle Jim’s place. It is just as it’s been described to me, lots of stairs, Aunt Tini’s art everywhere, messy - a senior bachelor pad. Uncle Jim is a friendly 85-year-old, suffering from a runny nose today. He offers to cook, but I gently suggest we go out. We go to Jolly Roger’s, as Tom predicted. Breakfast is spent trying to find something to talk about and failing. We settle for discussing the family members we both know.

Uncle Jim shows me a bit of Laguna Beach, then takes me to visit an old, deaf Italian woman who was a close friend Aunt Tini’s. We manage to frustrate her greatly trying to make an introduction. My situation is hard enough to describe in spoken language. Jim keeps talking to her in spite of himself. We end up writing what we can on a pad, but even reading English is difficult for her. It’s a strange visit. Once we feel we’ve sorted out her initial confusion a bit, we leave.

We go back to Jim’s, take some pictures. I have to cut things short to have any chance of making LA before dark. Jim awkwardly gives me a nice Swiss Army knife, which I awkwardly accept.

When I reach Long Beach I don my white cloth respirator, obtained from the Institute of Sociometry as part of the Red Pollution Adversary project. At first I don’t get much reaction. It fits too well in the industrial setting. But in the hilly horse ranches of Palos Verdes the stares are a little more dumbfounded. In this setting I imagine my visage is more remniscent of an apocolyptic horseman. On Redondo Beach I’m merely regarded as a freak. Making my way inland from Marina Del Ray I mistakenly exit a bike path onto a basketball court full of kids giving me cold, hard stares. I quickly turn around. Downtown, it’s me doing the staring at other freaky looking people.

I wind up in downtown LA at night despite my efforts to hurry. I have to call my cousin Dan for directions. A local bike commuter passes, and I follow him for a while. I find Dan’s house, but it’s empty. His neighbors lead a very tired me to the local Thai dive where a big group from Gospel Recordings is having dinner. In front of everyone, I greet Jon as Dan. Clearly I don’t get to see my cousins too often. Very embarrassing. I barely manage to hold up conversation, eat, walk home, and collapse in bed.

After a few bowls of cereal, Tom and I set off on our ride, an extended version of his usual commute to work. I know he’s a racer and I can’t help pushing a tiny bit harder than usual. But mostly we cruise and talk, much of the ride on empty roads and bike paths. We pass the power plant where Tom works.

It surprises me, given his Navy background, but Tom is pretty liberal and even shares some of my daydreams from time to time, like living in the mountains, off the grid. I feel comfortable enough to share my observations and criticisms of our drug laws, and he’s receptive. Interesting. We also share an appreciation of attractive women, and he recommends the El Tarito to me for happy hour. He knows Dana Point from his months living in the bus, which he recalls fondly. We have a light lunch and he takes off to ride back.

I set up my camp at the Cohery Beach park, take a delicious nap, read, then wander to the El Torito. Happy hour is on. I have a beer and nachos. There is indeed a good looking waitress to look at. She’s very good at not looking back. Two well-dressed young women sit nearby, talking. Some more women in business dress come in and stand waiting. I’d like to find out more about them, but I’m completely unable to muster the will to talk to them. I feel distinctly unwelcome in their little world here. I give up, wander out into the night, walk, and sing to myself before going back to the tent.

We have a light breakfast then go to Carlsbad for the day. We walk the beach, watching the girls out jogging, which Tom and I enjoy. We taste the wines at the local winery, which Patti enjoys. I have a delicious Mahi Mahi burrito for lunch, and we all enjoy a marguerita. We shoot some pool and let the afternoon go by.

Patti makes pasta for dinner and we all watch Austin Powers 2. Listening to them talk about movies, I wonder if it’s the only one they can agree on. I watch another, The Imposters, before I crash out.

These straightforward, rhythmic verses about the Job of the ancient Greeks knock persistently on doors in your head until they open.

No one is awake in the morning, so I go out and buy groceries, then go to breakfast. Bill is up when I get back, so I say goodbye. I get Russ up and thank him too, then ride away into fog and light rain.

I set up camp at somewhat ugly Carlsbad Beach State Park, eat some lunch, and arrange to meet my cousin Tom and his wife Patti for dinner. It’s only afternoon now, so I wait. I find out I’ll be sharing my campsite with an old guy who’s a little crazy. I just stay away from him for the time being.

Tom shows up in his VW bus and insists on taking me to his place. We go to my campsite to get my things, and the old guy there goes nuts on us. Yells that we ignore him because we think he’s just a trashy old nigger. Shows us his bullet wounds from Viet Nam over and over. Nothing we say helps at all, so we just throw my stuff in the van as fast as we can and get out.

We enjoy a few beers and a good dinner in Carlsbad. Tom plans to take a couple of sick days to spend with me.

Bill is the only one up in the morning, so I invite him out to breakfast. I like Bill, but we’re both quiet and don’t have much in common to talk about anyway. He likes sports and music and holds a different low-paying job every time I’m here. This time he works as bagger at a grocery store. I’ve never seen Bill complain or get upset. I buy and ogle our smiling, muscular waitress.

Bill is curious about the recumbent, so I send him off for a ride. He gets it right away and cruises around for a few minutes. I go off to make some phone calls. Bill waves as he takes off to work on his bike.

Russ and Sean take me to the beach. Sean appears to be Russ’ lackey. He holds the money and forks over whatever Russ asks for. Then again, Russ has a way of making everyone seem like his lackey. There are no girls on the beach. Sean sells a bag at a skate shop in exchange for a T-shirt. They smoke a blunt with notorious “Hemp Dave”, who kicks a one-armed Mexican riding by on a bike, saying he owes him $1500. We talk to an English guy working on an expansion of a fashion shop. Sean climbs into a car with someone, leaving Russ lackeyless.

We go home, then Mike and Dan pull up in a blue Chevy Malibu with tinted windows. We go out to happy hour in it. Even though Russ has no money, he orders whatever he wants. I guess we’ve become the lackeys. I try to figure out how he does it. He has some way of making it seem like he would always share whatever he has with you, so of course you won’t mind doing the same for him. He offers no gratitude. It works. Mike, out of the blue, offers to lend Russ $100. Russ takes 20. Later he uses some of it to buy me a beer.

We spend the night scouring bars. Many of them are closed on Monday. Mike is depressed about breaking up with his girlfriend and has a pocket full of valium to console him. They tell tales illustrating the brotherhood of the Pacific Beach (PB) neighborhood. They sound like gang stories to me. Fights with outsiders, parties, escapades. Fighting and fucking seem to be the two things they care about most.

They take me out to my first titty bar. I try to enjoy it, but it just doesn’t do it for me. The women are gorgeous, but I know they’re not for me and only care about getting the bills out of my pocket. Leave it to me to have a dull time going out to a titty bar in a tricked-out Malibu.

I enter the house just as Julie is retiring to “the sauna” for the day. I give her a last tender hug. then I gather my things, pack up, and begin the climb out of Borrego Springs.

My body is feeling particularly good and the wind is gentle. Climbing in the dry heat as the sun ascends feels perfect. My mind fills with memories of the PCT as I join San Felipe creek on highway 78. That journey is now a bottomless well of joy and romance within me, and I wonder if this trip will undergo that transformation as well. When I cross the trail everything looks just as I remember it. My memory is so clear that I wonder if I’ve used up a disproportionate amount of it on that trip. I certainly have trouble remembering anything else in such detail. I was thirsty then, so on this reunion I have a long drink before starting toward the hills to the west.

The canyon I climb is filled with oaks. I know that the desert is now behind me. After a long, winding climb I roll into the picturesque forests and fields surrounding quaint, touristy Julian. There people surround me, asking about my journey and applauding my answers. I have a fabulous breakfast, including the best apple walnut pancakes I can imagine.

From there the grassy, boulder-strewn hills slowly give way to city. I take a long, twisted route into San Diego, but manage to roll up to the familiar house at Feldspar Street before dark. No one is expecting me, so I stick my head in the door and ask if I can use the bathroom. I grin at Bill and Russ until they recognize me, saying, “Dylan? What the fuck?” I try to play up my entry all I can. Then I hang out and eat while they play nintendo and get high. Same I thing I did last time I was here, prior to my PCT hike 1996.

Russ takes me out with a couple of goofy rich guys for sushi. I gather they’re customers. They’re a little annoying, but they drive and share their food. I try all sorts of stuff I’ve never had: eel rolls, octopus, salmon, and rainbow rolls, all good. I talk a bit with Russ. He’s still never had a taxpaying job, which I sort of admire. He’s become proud of his “Wyoming heritage,” and talks about hunting coyotes to make a jacket for himself. He talks a lot about his friend Master Fuol, a hip hop artist from Brooklyn. Russ calls him a blessing, his true family. Russ, I should mention, is wearing a Ralph Lauren polo sweatsuit, hiking boots, gold chains, and a diamond earring. He tells me he’s a giving person and he’ll share the wealth with me if Fuol makes him into a hip-hop mover and shaker. He describes his generosity with a story. When he took Fuol to visit Laramie they flew in two “fine Jamaican bitches” who stayed with Russ at his parents house. Russ knew Scott Barker, the only black kid we grew up with in Laramie, had never been laid by a black chick. So he sent one of the Jamaicans over to Scott’s with instructions to fuck his brains out. He says Scott still thanks him whenever he sees him. I take all of this with a grain of salt. Russ is notorious for leeching off of women and friends, borrowing money and never repaying it, failing to come up with rent, etc. I still give him the benefit of the doubt because of his one act of generosity towards me - he gave me a skateboard when Pete and I lived in Jackson Hole and I was way too poor to buy one. I’ve always liked him, even if I don’t care to live in his world.

Russ has developed a taste for cognac, and pays $28 for a shot of Sempe. I try a taste, but I’m not about to shell out for any.

On the way home the more annoying rich guy has to pee, and when he steps into some bushes we flash the lights and honk the horn at him. I laugh heartily in spite of myself.

We get home and everyone but me proceeds to smoke out. At one point Russ looks out the door, spits and swears, slams it, and takes off out the back, saying, “cops”. There’s a great commotion to hide things. The rich guys break the bong. Bill goes outside to deal with them. Turns out to be a noise complaint. We don’t see Russ for a few hours. I lay claim to a couch and make myself comfortable.