The road trip up to San Francisco was successfully parceled out into digestible chunks, most of which can be summarized and reduced to a few key phrases. It is important to remember that guys often resort to the negative to display their affection for each other. It is not unusual, at least in our party, to hear words like “death”, “hate”, “kill”, “punch”, and “face”, not regarding the Middle East problem or theology, but as regular interjections, spoken with the proper amount of self-satisfied punch, and reposts to something innocuous said by another. A typical exchange goes like this:
TIM: I’m hungry. Who’s hungry?
JOE: Your face is hungry.
JEREMIAH: Oooh, Taco Bell!
JOHN: Ugh, I only want to eat expensive food.
TIM: Oh yeah? Eat this!
He mock punches John.
JOE: Oh yeah? Well I’m going to kill you so fast you’ll think you’ve been time travelling.
JEREMIAH: I hate you all. But seriously. Taco Bell?
Sometimes sound effects are involved, but those are salad dressing next to the real substance of our conversations, which are, even as salads go, not all that fortifying. Nevertheless, we comport ourselves with a minimum of care, so even the harshest word seems a mere prelude to more insults and mockery.
We drove all day Friday and reached the Mystery Spot at 4-ish, just missing the second to last tour. We waited for 5pm to roll around and the tour began. Our guide, named Merv or something like that, was a young kid, probably 20 or so, and had a whole routine which I’m sure works for larger crowds, but for a party of six, it falls a little flat. Given the nature of the place–it’s the Mystery Spot, not the Waldorf Astoria–skepticism is already running at full bore, so the patter didn’t help. Nevertheless, it was an interesting experience. I felt seasick as I stepped into the center of the Spot, but that soon gave way to an intense gravitational pull that seemed more intense than was warranted, though the entire tour is built on a slant so the experience is accentuated. Various theories to explain the phenomenon include aliens, a swirling vortex of magnetic magma, and the idea that the entire thing is situated over a portal to Hell. Real? Who knows. But if there was ever a justification for government spending, this would be it. I came away satisfied that paying taxes, while annoying, is certainly better than falling into the open maw of the earth where a molten magma demon awaits to scorch the flesh and sinew from my putrid bones while breathing out pure gravity juice to infect the earth with its uncanny tree-bending power.
We drove into Santa Cruz and met up with Sara Z, who led us around the hippie-saturated town until it was time to eat at 99 Bottles, which has far better beer than food or service. This was followed by a trip to the Cineplex where Tom Cruise performed well under adverse conditions.
The following day we skipped forward to San Francisco, Beacon of the West, City of A Thousand Hills, Home of the Expensive Food. Did not ride a trolley, as that seemed the fastest way to get killed in a Michael Bay action stunt. Instead, we trolled around Fisherman’s Wharf, which is unlike any other tourist trap in that it has sea lions lying about, possibly lazier than Santa Monica’s underemployed actors (AKA homeless folk) and vying for the top spot in the world’s Most Likely To Get In Argument With Seagull And Lose. We stocked up on saltwater taffy, stopped by every tchotchke shop so John could feast his eyes on shiny objects (like a raccoon, that one). Go figure, he ends up buying a pair of socks. Not a knife, not a scrimshaw carving of Mother Theresa or Elvis, not a bling necklace with a cross the size of Christ’s own, but a pair of socks. Gotta respect a man who buys socks from a wharf shop.
Then it was to Ghirardelli Square, where chocolate squares are handed out like tickets to a Tim Robbins play. One of mine fell to the floor and I was disappointed, so I consoled myself with $3.00 ice cream and a visit to the Maritime Museum, which held bits and pieces of every whaling vessel that had sailed through San Francisco Bay, along with a tiny plaque bearing the words “Here lies Captain Jack Sparrow.” That guy gets around.
5:30pm, Saturday. It’s time to shuffle off the Golden Gate and head into the hills where a cheap campsite awaits. We drove to Mount Tamalpais State Park and threaded up and down hills that would make Taz nauseous, but to little effect. The campground was full, so we continued to drive until we found one that was open.
Joe and I pitched the hell out of the tent, erecting it in a matter of minutes. Not bad for a couple of city boys with failing light. Getting a fire started was a different matter. The entire evening was spent attempting various methods of maintenance, including an infamous “hairy stick” that became our most risque joke of the night, appropriate only because the trip doubled as a bachelor party for John. About midway through our marshmallow cookery, a rustling alerted us to a canny woodland visitor. A raccoon with balls the size of marbles (hey, for a raccoon that’s probably pretty big, right?) had strolled up to our table, grabbed the entire bag of marshmallows, and made off like Winona Ryder at a fashion store. We tracked the trail of white jet-puffed treats down an incline to the stream where it led to a cave dwelling where the beast had made its stand. We hurled mockery and insults at the wily coon, but it did not take our verbal bait, already having enjoyed the satisfaction of manufactured sugar.
Returning to the campsite, we gathered up the remaining marshmallows and attempted to trap small animals for fun and profit, but the evening had been fully influenced by alcohol intake, and we were rendered ineffectual hunters and trappers. Nature: 1. Man: Buzzed.
Camping, for those who aren’t familiar, is the art of pretending to like the outdoors whilst undergoing severe lumbar realignment so as to cause your spine to resemble a constellation of dubious nomenclature. You see that group of stars there, son? That is the constellation Double S Curve, named after the Greek god Spina Bifida.
The remainder of the trip involved swimming in a reservoir in our underwear and driving through the desert to the sounds of post-Cinco de Mayo Latin rap, though we took some pleasure in attempting to find the cheapest gas prices, which rose steadily as we approached Los Angeles. We arrived back in town Sunday evening, glad to see traffic and smog once again. Home sweet home, right?