Sometimes I think of California.
Anaheim. Downtown Disney and parts of Disneyland.
Buena Park. The Buena Park Downtown mall, and the sadly long-defunct Po Folks restaurant, which was one of the very few saving graces of existing in Southern California.
Burbank. IKEA and the Swedish meatballs I fervently wish I could have back, if only the company would build here in Las Vegas, probably on the empty lot near Fry's Electronics in Town Square Las Vegas.
Ventura. Ventura Harbor Village.
And San Juan Capistrano. That small main street drag that once made me think I could live there, especially one or two historical houses with museum components located right next to the railroad track.
Yet, I don't ever want to go back to California. After those nine years, I don't ever want to see it again. I don't want to reconnect to it ever again, not that there ever was a lasting connection, save for the occasional piece of writing, like this one.
But even with that declaration, there still are two connections, though I can ignore the first one as much as possible.
Las Vegas is a weekend playground for many Southern Californians, by dint of us being next door to that region, and the money they spend and lose here is always appreciated, though that's all I choose to know about that. As long as they leave at the end of each weekend, I'm ok with them.
The second connection can't be brushed off so easily, but I don't mind it.
Back in my 19 years in Florida, depending on where you went or lived, there was Deer Park water. Zephyrhills. Names you'd only know in Florida. We have such a thing here in Southern Nevada, but to a more minor extent, alkalized bottled water called Real Water, based in Las Vegas and drawn from the Las Vegas Valley Water District. It's your basic tap water, but alkalized. I tried it once, and it's ok, but not as a regular supply.
Ever since our first year in the Santa Clarita Valley in Southern California, in Valencia, we've drunk Arrowhead Water, which, according to the bottle label I have in front of me, is owned by Nestle Waters North America Inc., based in Stamford, Connecticut. Neither the water in our apartment in Valencia nor our condo in Saugus was ever suitably drinkable to us, and I know we could have gotten a filter, but it was easier this way, rather than the whole matter of buying the filter system, using the filter, changing the filter. And who knows how much the water would have taxed the filter two or three times over? We wanted something reliable and we found it in Arrowhead.
Now that we live in Henderson, we still drink Arrowhead. It's here, since Southern California is next door. It was reliable there and it's reliable here. Same thing with the filter. Easier to do it this way since we know what we're getting with this water. And even with being relatively far away from the parts of Southern California I know, we are still connected to it, though more in a minor sense. Also on the Arrowhead label is this:
"Sources: Southern Pacific Spring, Riverside County, CA; Arrowhead Springs, San Bernardino, CA; Long Point Ranch, Running Springs, CA; Palomar Mountain Granite Springs (PMGS), Palomar, CA; Deer Canyon Springs, San Bernardino, CA and/or Coyote Springs, Inyo County, CA."
I've never been to Palomar. In San Bernardino County, we went to incorporated Hesperia once, for the Golden Corral buffet found there (we're all big fans of Golden Corral, my sister and I having been to it since we were very young in Florida), and to incorporated Victorville, to drive through it on our way to various trips to Las Vegas. Fortunately, that's all over with now since we're here.
We never went to Inyo County. No reason to. Ditto Running Springs, in San Bernardino County.
This is the only daily connection to California that remains. Sometimes I notice it. Sometimes I don't. It's the same way that I sometimes think about the few places in California that I liked. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. And they may end up further in my writing, or they may not. I don't know yet, and I much prefer being this removed from California. The water's better.
Showing posts with label buena park. Show all posts
Showing posts with label buena park. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Only in Words and Photos
On Friday, my sister had a job interview at M&M's World on the Strip that turned into two, which is a good sign. They liked her enough during the first interview that they had her do a second with someone else higher-up there. Or at least that's what it sounds like.
The directions given to Meridith for this interview said to park in the Showcase Mall parking garage. Obviously, not only because it's right there, attached to the building that houses M&M's World, but also because we couldn't park in the garage at New York-New York and walk across the street, or park in the garage at MGM Grand and walk through the casino to that sidewalk and then walk the length of the sidewalk. It was way too hot, and it was even hotter yesterday at 115 degrees.
It costs $3 to park in the Showcase Mall garage, and that may be the reason it's so clean. Few people park in there because the Showcase Mall isn't the only place they want to go. You only park there if you want New York-New York and MGM Grand and Monte Carlo at the same time, with the parking garage a central location facing all of those. If you want to walk even further, you can reach Aria and the Cosmopolitan. In cooler days, that would be reasonable. Not that day, or rather not for us. The tourists were out and about anyway, no matter the heat. Can't waste time when you're on vacation.
We parked on the fourth floor of the garage, the top floor I think, because M&M's World reaches the fourth floor with a full-size NASCAR car and various merchandise. It's a quieter floor than any other there. Meridith had to be on the fourth floor because that's where the interview would take place. When we got inside M&M's World, and Meridith asked an employee standing near a costumed red M&M character, she was told to wait on the left side, near the door marked "Authorized Personnel Only." Even with how compact the Showcase Mall appears to be, with a smaller Coca-Cola store and a Half Price Tickets kiosk, there's still room for offices in the back. Amazing.
I thought the big thing for me during this visit would be the free 3D movie, "I Lost My 'M' in Vegas," shown in a tiny screening room on the third floor. Not so. We parked and walked to the double doors that were an entrance to an enclosed walkway that would lead us to M&M's World. We opened the doors and I found the cleanest, the most peaceful, and the most low-key walkway I've ever seen in Las Vegas. White tile flooring, framed posters of upcoming movies at the entrance to the walkway and at the end of the walkway, courtesy of the nearby United Artists theater, and above, a wavy metal ceiling structure with small holes all throughout, and above that structure, wavy red neon lighting embedded in the ceiling. If there is a Heaven after this life, this is the walkway that I hope will be there. But more than that, I knew right away that I had to use this walkway in my first novel. And things changed because of that.
Originally, I wanted my two main characters to go to the Buena Park Downtown mall after eating at Po Folks, a Southern restaurant I grew up on in Florida, which had only one branch this far out, and it closed some time ago. But in my novel, it's still open. Now, I loved Buena Park Downtown, with its slight gloom, its gray color scheme, its mostly low ceilings because it felt like it had history, it had a semi-lived-in feeling, and it seemed to keep memories of those who walked through and who worked there. Not necessarily in soda stains, but just the feeling of the place, like if you stared hard enough at a wall near the entrance to the Walmart there, you could actually see who was there before you. Something like that.
The scene at Buena Park Downtown would have involved the duo going down to the first floor, to John's Incredible Pizza Company, where there would be a frantic search for the rare pinball machine on the massive arcade floor, a fervent belief that it's there. But after finding that walkway, and considering the information that my characters would be given along the way, across the country, in this search, wouldn't it be enough that the final piece come from the source they meet in this walkway? I'm not going to reveal why this source is there, but I like how it may play out. And because of that, because they can just go right to where they need to be after eating at Po Folks, it makes Buena Park Downtown an extraneous scene. It adds nothing to my story. But I feel ok about it. No regrets about not being able to use it. The story leads.
I was thinking about all this while watching an indie film called Littlerock on Amazon Instant Video. A brother and sister, two Japanese tourists, wind up in a Southern California desert town called Littlerock after their rental car breaks down. There is nothing to do in this town, and as Atsuko (Atsuko Okatsuka) observes, the stores are so far away. I'm trying to watch it, and it's not that it isn't good. It captures that disembodied atmosphere perfectly. But I'm not as interested in it as I originally hoped. I want to keep in mind Buena Park, Anaheim, Baker, and San Juan Capistrano. I need the first three for my writing, and the latter for my own memories. But the rest of Southern California, such as Victorville, Palmdale, and other places that mirror Littlerock? I don't want them anymore. I don't think I ever wanted them, but I needed them for nine years, to know them a little bit, for survival, to keep my head on straight during those nine long years. Now that I'm here in Las Vegas, they fade. I'm glad they do because I have so much here to fill me up, so much to explore every day. It's not that bad memories come to the surface during Littlerock, but the question of why I'm watching this when I've left it all behind. That's not my desert. It never was. Originally, I think I wanted to see Littlerock because I wanted to see how a filmmaker saw what I had known for all that time. Could they find some new revelation in it that I hadn't known? So far, no. It is what I once remember. Same as it ever was.
And yet, I have King of California in my DVD collection, and that's set in Santa Clarita, though it wasn't entirely filmed there. Why that? Why a movie that's meant to represent a valley in which I existed for nine long years? That's different. King of California is a Quixotesque story that is only partially about place. It is mainly about a frantic search for buried treasure. And it moves. It never dwells too long. Plus, it's not the actual Santa Clarita I knew, because there's no Santa Clarita Department of Mental Health. Plus it serves as one of many blueprints for my novel.
I don't read anything about Southern California anymore that's not research-related. I spent more than enough time there. But what I do read, if it's a novel to inform my own novel, or a book about, say, Anaheim or some aspect of Anaheim, I can handle that. I don't mind that. I think it's because for me, words don't take as much time as some movies do. Granted, Littlerock is only an hour and 23 minutes, but a chapter in a book about Anaheim would take far less time to read. I can get the information I need and move on and that's all I have to know about Southern California until I need something else, or something else comes up in my reading that I want to include in my work. It's the same with photos I find online, of Baker, of Buena Park. I can look at them for a minute or a few minutes if necessary and then move on. I don't need the atmosphere anymore. It's lodged in my memory for when I write about it. I don't need that mess of mountains and freeways. I don't even need the trains because our future apartment complex is located near the railroad track and I can have those trains. To watch Littlerock and be back in Southern California like that is too long. Maybe for me it's the kind of movie to watch in pieces, to fast forward, watch a few seconds, see where it leads, and go to another section. I got the gist of the movie in the first five minutes, so anything else to come would not be anything so new to me that I'd have to go back to previous scenes, scenes that I possibly hadn't watched, to know what's going on. Nine years is a long enough time that pieces of Southern California will always be with me. If not in my work, then the rare pleasant memories I had there, such as that day of research at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences' Margaret Herrick Library in Beverly Hills. But it doesn't mean that I want to dwell, as Littlerock would have me do. Though that's not the actual purpose of the movie, it's what I take from it from my own personal experience. And yet, when I write the Buena Park section of my first novel, and write extensively about Anaheim in a later novel, I will be dwelling. The difference is that I don't mind being in either city in my mind. I don't need what doesn't matter to me anymore. Let it remain distant as it has for these past eight months and counting. As I watch Littlerock it's a reminder of what I'm glad to have left behind. After those nine years, to the point where I was trying not to lose hope of ever getting out of there, I made it out. In that way, perhaps Littlerock is a victory lap for me. I can watch what I want of it and it doesn't affect me like it used to. I've completely detached myself from it. For that, I'm relieved. It'll always be in me, but it's not me.
The directions given to Meridith for this interview said to park in the Showcase Mall parking garage. Obviously, not only because it's right there, attached to the building that houses M&M's World, but also because we couldn't park in the garage at New York-New York and walk across the street, or park in the garage at MGM Grand and walk through the casino to that sidewalk and then walk the length of the sidewalk. It was way too hot, and it was even hotter yesterday at 115 degrees.
It costs $3 to park in the Showcase Mall garage, and that may be the reason it's so clean. Few people park in there because the Showcase Mall isn't the only place they want to go. You only park there if you want New York-New York and MGM Grand and Monte Carlo at the same time, with the parking garage a central location facing all of those. If you want to walk even further, you can reach Aria and the Cosmopolitan. In cooler days, that would be reasonable. Not that day, or rather not for us. The tourists were out and about anyway, no matter the heat. Can't waste time when you're on vacation.
We parked on the fourth floor of the garage, the top floor I think, because M&M's World reaches the fourth floor with a full-size NASCAR car and various merchandise. It's a quieter floor than any other there. Meridith had to be on the fourth floor because that's where the interview would take place. When we got inside M&M's World, and Meridith asked an employee standing near a costumed red M&M character, she was told to wait on the left side, near the door marked "Authorized Personnel Only." Even with how compact the Showcase Mall appears to be, with a smaller Coca-Cola store and a Half Price Tickets kiosk, there's still room for offices in the back. Amazing.
I thought the big thing for me during this visit would be the free 3D movie, "I Lost My 'M' in Vegas," shown in a tiny screening room on the third floor. Not so. We parked and walked to the double doors that were an entrance to an enclosed walkway that would lead us to M&M's World. We opened the doors and I found the cleanest, the most peaceful, and the most low-key walkway I've ever seen in Las Vegas. White tile flooring, framed posters of upcoming movies at the entrance to the walkway and at the end of the walkway, courtesy of the nearby United Artists theater, and above, a wavy metal ceiling structure with small holes all throughout, and above that structure, wavy red neon lighting embedded in the ceiling. If there is a Heaven after this life, this is the walkway that I hope will be there. But more than that, I knew right away that I had to use this walkway in my first novel. And things changed because of that.
Originally, I wanted my two main characters to go to the Buena Park Downtown mall after eating at Po Folks, a Southern restaurant I grew up on in Florida, which had only one branch this far out, and it closed some time ago. But in my novel, it's still open. Now, I loved Buena Park Downtown, with its slight gloom, its gray color scheme, its mostly low ceilings because it felt like it had history, it had a semi-lived-in feeling, and it seemed to keep memories of those who walked through and who worked there. Not necessarily in soda stains, but just the feeling of the place, like if you stared hard enough at a wall near the entrance to the Walmart there, you could actually see who was there before you. Something like that.
The scene at Buena Park Downtown would have involved the duo going down to the first floor, to John's Incredible Pizza Company, where there would be a frantic search for the rare pinball machine on the massive arcade floor, a fervent belief that it's there. But after finding that walkway, and considering the information that my characters would be given along the way, across the country, in this search, wouldn't it be enough that the final piece come from the source they meet in this walkway? I'm not going to reveal why this source is there, but I like how it may play out. And because of that, because they can just go right to where they need to be after eating at Po Folks, it makes Buena Park Downtown an extraneous scene. It adds nothing to my story. But I feel ok about it. No regrets about not being able to use it. The story leads.
I was thinking about all this while watching an indie film called Littlerock on Amazon Instant Video. A brother and sister, two Japanese tourists, wind up in a Southern California desert town called Littlerock after their rental car breaks down. There is nothing to do in this town, and as Atsuko (Atsuko Okatsuka) observes, the stores are so far away. I'm trying to watch it, and it's not that it isn't good. It captures that disembodied atmosphere perfectly. But I'm not as interested in it as I originally hoped. I want to keep in mind Buena Park, Anaheim, Baker, and San Juan Capistrano. I need the first three for my writing, and the latter for my own memories. But the rest of Southern California, such as Victorville, Palmdale, and other places that mirror Littlerock? I don't want them anymore. I don't think I ever wanted them, but I needed them for nine years, to know them a little bit, for survival, to keep my head on straight during those nine long years. Now that I'm here in Las Vegas, they fade. I'm glad they do because I have so much here to fill me up, so much to explore every day. It's not that bad memories come to the surface during Littlerock, but the question of why I'm watching this when I've left it all behind. That's not my desert. It never was. Originally, I think I wanted to see Littlerock because I wanted to see how a filmmaker saw what I had known for all that time. Could they find some new revelation in it that I hadn't known? So far, no. It is what I once remember. Same as it ever was.
And yet, I have King of California in my DVD collection, and that's set in Santa Clarita, though it wasn't entirely filmed there. Why that? Why a movie that's meant to represent a valley in which I existed for nine long years? That's different. King of California is a Quixotesque story that is only partially about place. It is mainly about a frantic search for buried treasure. And it moves. It never dwells too long. Plus, it's not the actual Santa Clarita I knew, because there's no Santa Clarita Department of Mental Health. Plus it serves as one of many blueprints for my novel.
I don't read anything about Southern California anymore that's not research-related. I spent more than enough time there. But what I do read, if it's a novel to inform my own novel, or a book about, say, Anaheim or some aspect of Anaheim, I can handle that. I don't mind that. I think it's because for me, words don't take as much time as some movies do. Granted, Littlerock is only an hour and 23 minutes, but a chapter in a book about Anaheim would take far less time to read. I can get the information I need and move on and that's all I have to know about Southern California until I need something else, or something else comes up in my reading that I want to include in my work. It's the same with photos I find online, of Baker, of Buena Park. I can look at them for a minute or a few minutes if necessary and then move on. I don't need the atmosphere anymore. It's lodged in my memory for when I write about it. I don't need that mess of mountains and freeways. I don't even need the trains because our future apartment complex is located near the railroad track and I can have those trains. To watch Littlerock and be back in Southern California like that is too long. Maybe for me it's the kind of movie to watch in pieces, to fast forward, watch a few seconds, see where it leads, and go to another section. I got the gist of the movie in the first five minutes, so anything else to come would not be anything so new to me that I'd have to go back to previous scenes, scenes that I possibly hadn't watched, to know what's going on. Nine years is a long enough time that pieces of Southern California will always be with me. If not in my work, then the rare pleasant memories I had there, such as that day of research at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences' Margaret Herrick Library in Beverly Hills. But it doesn't mean that I want to dwell, as Littlerock would have me do. Though that's not the actual purpose of the movie, it's what I take from it from my own personal experience. And yet, when I write the Buena Park section of my first novel, and write extensively about Anaheim in a later novel, I will be dwelling. The difference is that I don't mind being in either city in my mind. I don't need what doesn't matter to me anymore. Let it remain distant as it has for these past eight months and counting. As I watch Littlerock it's a reminder of what I'm glad to have left behind. After those nine years, to the point where I was trying not to lose hope of ever getting out of there, I made it out. In that way, perhaps Littlerock is a victory lap for me. I can watch what I want of it and it doesn't affect me like it used to. I've completely detached myself from it. For that, I'm relieved. It'll always be in me, but it's not me.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
History Erased
Three weeks ago, I learned from The Coaster Guy that the Six Flags Magic Mountain memorabilia in the Sky Tower had been completely removed, including the framed awards on two walls, bringing it back to its original form of people just riding the elevator up and looking at the view from all sides. I'm disappointed, because this was the one place in the Santa Clarita Valley where history was alive. History here is usually sad and decrepit. It has meaning, but it's not quite there because it always feels like regret. I know that people have history that they're not too proud of, but if we're talking the history of a place, the history of a valley, there should be more. And the Sky Tower Museum did have more. I agree with Kurt, the proprietor of the site, that it "was a great idea, but I don’t think it was executed very well." He's right on that count. The memorabilia was there, and so was that feeling of history being necessary. There were costumes and props and decommissioned seats from rollercoasters that didn't need those seats anymore, or didn't need to be a rollercoaster anymore. It was a random assortment, though. No chronological order, no theme. No section for rollercoasters, and then stage shows or outdoor shows, and then the overall park, such as it would be with maps from the 1970s. What Six Flags Magic Mountain should have done is train the employees in the history of the park. No tests or anything like that; just make sure that they can speak confidently enough about the history and answer any questions. In fact, they should have had a few sheets detailing questions most likely to be asked in the Sky Tower Museum.
If Six Flags Magic Mountain was run by a company that still cared about its history like Knotts Berry Farm is in Buena Park (a town heavy with the ghosts of its history, but not as gloomy as that sounds), they could consult former employees who might still be in touch with others throughout that division of the company, or known historians, and create exhibits that give people a full view of what the park was like back then. Have those former employees from long ago and those historians come up with a program that's palatable to the average visitor, and still detailed enough for the devoted fan. This is how the Sky Tower could have been best used, and with the benefit of that panoramic view, docents (as in paid employees that wanted this position) could point out where certain areas used to be and where the dolphin shows had been, and whatever else visitors might have wanted to know.
But would it have worked? Would there have been enough visitors to justify such a venture? Idealistically, I would hope so. But realistically, I'm not sure. Visitors who live in Santa Clarita just want the rides, and to get out of the heat for a little while during those months. Tourists want to see the park, and try to understand how in the heck people could simply walk up that huge frickin' Samurai Summit without either pulling something or collapsing from exhaustion, but on a not-too-steep incline so they don't roll down the hill. I would hope, even realistically, that mixed into those crowds are those interested enough in the history of place, to wonder what the park had been before its current incarnation, to try to imagine the park from the Sky Tower without all those rides, without those shows, without those food stands, and without the Sky Tower, imagining all that emptiness before it began to be filled in.
In the comments section of Kurt's post, he says that the artifacts were moved to Level P1, which is the "floor of the tower under the museum," now meaning under the panoramic view. It's amazing what's actually contained within the tower, as Kurt wrote in the early days of his blog:
"It stands 385 feet tall, has two observation decks around the 300 foot mark, and is serviced by two elevators. It can even be configured as a restaurant with the dining area on one floor and the kitchen on the other. Magic Mountain uses it as merely an observation deck, however they did furnish it with some historical park memorabilia in 2008 after a park employee suggested they create some sort of a museum."
Configured as a restaurant. Is the kitchen even up to code anymore? If they were to go that way, would they have to upgrade the equipment? This is what I'd want to know and also want to know if the dining configuration was ever used for any events. I'm sure it was, but these are the details that could have kept the Sky Tower Museum going.
Today, we four went to the Walmart on Kelly Johnson Parkway, the one that overlooks Six Flags Magic Mountain from a distance. Through willowy trees that have grown tall and bend airily in the wind, you can see the Superman: Escape from Krypton tower, as well as the Sky Tower. Superman: Escape from Krypton is having Lex Luthor: Drop of Doom added to it, which means clamping two separate tracks on each side of the tower, as a freefall kind of ride, or a drop tower ride, as they say. Who's they? Rollercoaster and theme park enthusiasts. I trust their word.
After we parked, I looked out at Six Flags Magic Mountain, at the Sky Tower and thought about that post with great regret. This is not a valley that's known for its history because it constantly presses on. We have to keep moving, we have to embrace the future, and then we have to discard that part of the future that has become the past and chase after the new future. Then the new new future. And, oh look! The new new new future!
One of the worst things happening to the Santa Clarita Valley, though few notice since it's financially in the crapper and wouldn't be if more people subscribed (though there's nothing worth subscribing for), is that the weekend Escape section of The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of this valley, has been cut down to 7 pages, which is basically nothing. I know. I worked with 16 pages when I was the interim editor and there was a lot more to play with. 7 pages in this edition is movie listings, an AP movie review of The Avengers by Christy Lemire (or at least I think it was The Avengers, though it doesn't matter), a few paragraphs from Chuck Shepard's News of the Weird, which is also part of the AP wire service for newspapers to use, and that's it. Nothing else. Nothing about this valley, and nothing about what's going on in this valley. Nothing to tell about its history, nothing to tell about anyone who might be doing something with its history, like a lecture or something. It's sadly a reflection on this valley because it is that shallow. Most who live here work in Los Angeles, and don't want to live in Los Angeles, so they come back here after work. This valley is the true definition of a bedroom community, minus "community," because there's no sense of one anywhere in here. Some people try, and I admire them for it, but it seems like a futile effort. How can it be done when L.A. is only half an hour south? L.A.'s not so great with its history either, as I learned from Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America by Gustavo Arellano. A lot of whitewashing of history on Olvera Street, and a harkening back to the good old pueblo days, which didn't actually exist. History is only useful there if it's beneficial. Otherwise, what history?
Also in Arellano's fascinating history tour, I learned about San Bernardino, "about sixty miles east of Los Angeles," which was starting to become "America's fast-food incubator." Taco Bell began in the L.A. suburb of Downey in 1962. I read something about Anaheim in here, but I can't find it. While reading that section, I thought about Anaheim and Buena Park, and how both retain their history in many forms. They may not pay a great deal of attention to it, but they don't ignore it, they don't shun it, and they aren't ashamed of it. In the years before we began to be set on Las Vegas as our next and final residence (once I'm there, I'm not moving. It's where I belong and I don't think any other city in America would fit me so comfortably as Las Vegas does), I think I would not have been so angry toward the vapidity of the Santa Clarita Valley if I had studied Anaheim and Buena Park closely. I wrote about Buena Park in late January 2010, and I still feel the same about it. It's there for those who seek its history. It's not trying to be something it never was. Anaheim fascinates me because even though it would seem that there's nothing else outside of Disneyland, it feels like it has its pockets of history. All those past lives and past dates and past events are part of its fabric. It absorbed them and gained character from them. Whenever we went to the now-unfortunately-closed Po Folks in Buena Park, I always got a copy of the Orange County Register. The paper has always covered Orange County extremely well, but what interested me the most was Jonathan Lansner, the Register's real estate writer. How could anyone be interested enough in real estate to write about it? I can't understand it, but people are interested in it, and Lansner always writes about it so well, making such clear sense out of all the numbers. I wondered who Lansner is when he's away from the Orange County Register, what got him interested in real estate. History has always been accessible in Orange County. It takes some time to find, I'm sure, but it's there. There's no fear of being seen as old, as seems to be the mentality in Los Angeles and Santa Clarita. Perhaps that's why history is hidden or erased, as it felt upon seeing the photos of that empty Sky Tower floor and walls.
Then on Saturday, while Mom, Dad, and Meridith were out, remembering that Escape section, I thought about what I would have done to revive the section, if there was management willing to make it vibrant again, getting rid of the monotony that has poisoned it. I thought about more stories of community events, profiles of people with different hobbies, including gardening because that's always been interesting to me as an observer. Articles about Santa Clarita's history that include interviews with those who have lived that history or have studied it well. As much as I loathe this valley and will happily never go back to it once I'm gone, it needs this. It needs this attention. The entire area always looks so dry, and that's not because of the weather. It's because no one wants to try to prop it up, to give it life. It's the bedroom community mentality. The major flaw in my "plan," is finding writers who can write and are passionate about this valley, who don't mind being paid the pittance that The Signal barely offers. A new owner would be an improvement, but only if it was someone first rich enough, and secondly who has lived in this valley for decades who actually loves it and wants to see it made better, more active. This shouldn't just be a bedroom community. This is where people live, and I've heard that there are people who live here who have never left this valley. I take it to mean that they've never driven out to L.A. or Burbank or Pasadena or Anaheim or Buena Park, but I find that absolutely impossible. Considering what's offered here, how could they find anything to do? The library only goes so far.
I wish for more for this valley. As awful as it has been to me, I really do. But whereas Buena Park's ghosts remain, and its history is always there, Santa Clarita is heavy with apathy. It's there. People just want to do their necessary errands, eat wherever the booze is good, go to a movie, get out of this valley on a Friday night, and that's it. They get what they put into it. Maybe Anaheim and Buena Park are just more interesting because they're removed from Los Angeles and Hollywood by extension. They have their own distinct identities because of that. They're not clawing and yowling for the power of media. They are who they are, in all that they offer. At least history exists somewhere in Southern California.
If Six Flags Magic Mountain was run by a company that still cared about its history like Knotts Berry Farm is in Buena Park (a town heavy with the ghosts of its history, but not as gloomy as that sounds), they could consult former employees who might still be in touch with others throughout that division of the company, or known historians, and create exhibits that give people a full view of what the park was like back then. Have those former employees from long ago and those historians come up with a program that's palatable to the average visitor, and still detailed enough for the devoted fan. This is how the Sky Tower could have been best used, and with the benefit of that panoramic view, docents (as in paid employees that wanted this position) could point out where certain areas used to be and where the dolphin shows had been, and whatever else visitors might have wanted to know.
But would it have worked? Would there have been enough visitors to justify such a venture? Idealistically, I would hope so. But realistically, I'm not sure. Visitors who live in Santa Clarita just want the rides, and to get out of the heat for a little while during those months. Tourists want to see the park, and try to understand how in the heck people could simply walk up that huge frickin' Samurai Summit without either pulling something or collapsing from exhaustion, but on a not-too-steep incline so they don't roll down the hill. I would hope, even realistically, that mixed into those crowds are those interested enough in the history of place, to wonder what the park had been before its current incarnation, to try to imagine the park from the Sky Tower without all those rides, without those shows, without those food stands, and without the Sky Tower, imagining all that emptiness before it began to be filled in.
In the comments section of Kurt's post, he says that the artifacts were moved to Level P1, which is the "floor of the tower under the museum," now meaning under the panoramic view. It's amazing what's actually contained within the tower, as Kurt wrote in the early days of his blog:
"It stands 385 feet tall, has two observation decks around the 300 foot mark, and is serviced by two elevators. It can even be configured as a restaurant with the dining area on one floor and the kitchen on the other. Magic Mountain uses it as merely an observation deck, however they did furnish it with some historical park memorabilia in 2008 after a park employee suggested they create some sort of a museum."
Configured as a restaurant. Is the kitchen even up to code anymore? If they were to go that way, would they have to upgrade the equipment? This is what I'd want to know and also want to know if the dining configuration was ever used for any events. I'm sure it was, but these are the details that could have kept the Sky Tower Museum going.
Today, we four went to the Walmart on Kelly Johnson Parkway, the one that overlooks Six Flags Magic Mountain from a distance. Through willowy trees that have grown tall and bend airily in the wind, you can see the Superman: Escape from Krypton tower, as well as the Sky Tower. Superman: Escape from Krypton is having Lex Luthor: Drop of Doom added to it, which means clamping two separate tracks on each side of the tower, as a freefall kind of ride, or a drop tower ride, as they say. Who's they? Rollercoaster and theme park enthusiasts. I trust their word.
After we parked, I looked out at Six Flags Magic Mountain, at the Sky Tower and thought about that post with great regret. This is not a valley that's known for its history because it constantly presses on. We have to keep moving, we have to embrace the future, and then we have to discard that part of the future that has become the past and chase after the new future. Then the new new future. And, oh look! The new new new future!
One of the worst things happening to the Santa Clarita Valley, though few notice since it's financially in the crapper and wouldn't be if more people subscribed (though there's nothing worth subscribing for), is that the weekend Escape section of The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of this valley, has been cut down to 7 pages, which is basically nothing. I know. I worked with 16 pages when I was the interim editor and there was a lot more to play with. 7 pages in this edition is movie listings, an AP movie review of The Avengers by Christy Lemire (or at least I think it was The Avengers, though it doesn't matter), a few paragraphs from Chuck Shepard's News of the Weird, which is also part of the AP wire service for newspapers to use, and that's it. Nothing else. Nothing about this valley, and nothing about what's going on in this valley. Nothing to tell about its history, nothing to tell about anyone who might be doing something with its history, like a lecture or something. It's sadly a reflection on this valley because it is that shallow. Most who live here work in Los Angeles, and don't want to live in Los Angeles, so they come back here after work. This valley is the true definition of a bedroom community, minus "community," because there's no sense of one anywhere in here. Some people try, and I admire them for it, but it seems like a futile effort. How can it be done when L.A. is only half an hour south? L.A.'s not so great with its history either, as I learned from Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America by Gustavo Arellano. A lot of whitewashing of history on Olvera Street, and a harkening back to the good old pueblo days, which didn't actually exist. History is only useful there if it's beneficial. Otherwise, what history?
Also in Arellano's fascinating history tour, I learned about San Bernardino, "about sixty miles east of Los Angeles," which was starting to become "America's fast-food incubator." Taco Bell began in the L.A. suburb of Downey in 1962. I read something about Anaheim in here, but I can't find it. While reading that section, I thought about Anaheim and Buena Park, and how both retain their history in many forms. They may not pay a great deal of attention to it, but they don't ignore it, they don't shun it, and they aren't ashamed of it. In the years before we began to be set on Las Vegas as our next and final residence (once I'm there, I'm not moving. It's where I belong and I don't think any other city in America would fit me so comfortably as Las Vegas does), I think I would not have been so angry toward the vapidity of the Santa Clarita Valley if I had studied Anaheim and Buena Park closely. I wrote about Buena Park in late January 2010, and I still feel the same about it. It's there for those who seek its history. It's not trying to be something it never was. Anaheim fascinates me because even though it would seem that there's nothing else outside of Disneyland, it feels like it has its pockets of history. All those past lives and past dates and past events are part of its fabric. It absorbed them and gained character from them. Whenever we went to the now-unfortunately-closed Po Folks in Buena Park, I always got a copy of the Orange County Register. The paper has always covered Orange County extremely well, but what interested me the most was Jonathan Lansner, the Register's real estate writer. How could anyone be interested enough in real estate to write about it? I can't understand it, but people are interested in it, and Lansner always writes about it so well, making such clear sense out of all the numbers. I wondered who Lansner is when he's away from the Orange County Register, what got him interested in real estate. History has always been accessible in Orange County. It takes some time to find, I'm sure, but it's there. There's no fear of being seen as old, as seems to be the mentality in Los Angeles and Santa Clarita. Perhaps that's why history is hidden or erased, as it felt upon seeing the photos of that empty Sky Tower floor and walls.
Then on Saturday, while Mom, Dad, and Meridith were out, remembering that Escape section, I thought about what I would have done to revive the section, if there was management willing to make it vibrant again, getting rid of the monotony that has poisoned it. I thought about more stories of community events, profiles of people with different hobbies, including gardening because that's always been interesting to me as an observer. Articles about Santa Clarita's history that include interviews with those who have lived that history or have studied it well. As much as I loathe this valley and will happily never go back to it once I'm gone, it needs this. It needs this attention. The entire area always looks so dry, and that's not because of the weather. It's because no one wants to try to prop it up, to give it life. It's the bedroom community mentality. The major flaw in my "plan," is finding writers who can write and are passionate about this valley, who don't mind being paid the pittance that The Signal barely offers. A new owner would be an improvement, but only if it was someone first rich enough, and secondly who has lived in this valley for decades who actually loves it and wants to see it made better, more active. This shouldn't just be a bedroom community. This is where people live, and I've heard that there are people who live here who have never left this valley. I take it to mean that they've never driven out to L.A. or Burbank or Pasadena or Anaheim or Buena Park, but I find that absolutely impossible. Considering what's offered here, how could they find anything to do? The library only goes so far.
I wish for more for this valley. As awful as it has been to me, I really do. But whereas Buena Park's ghosts remain, and its history is always there, Santa Clarita is heavy with apathy. It's there. People just want to do their necessary errands, eat wherever the booze is good, go to a movie, get out of this valley on a Friday night, and that's it. They get what they put into it. Maybe Anaheim and Buena Park are just more interesting because they're removed from Los Angeles and Hollywood by extension. They have their own distinct identities because of that. They're not clawing and yowling for the power of media. They are who they are, in all that they offer. At least history exists somewhere in Southern California.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Buena Park? San Juan Capistrano? Cambria? San Francisco?
Reflecting on over six years in California, I've thought about mentally pitting my favorite places against one another to see which emerges as my favorite. But that's not fair to each place, or rather, each city, and rightly so. In my nearly ten years as a film critic, I never ranked movies at year's end. I don't think there was much opportunity to do so in the publications for which I wrote, but I wouldn't have wanted to anyway. I've always been baffled at how one genre could rise above another, or how, say, a performance by an actor as a cowboy might outrank the performance by another actor as a regularly soused society dandy. I understand the desire by editors and most likely by readers for top 10 lists. They compress all the works of a year into a manageable, hopefully readable package, giving readers ideas about movies they might want to see, or books they might want to read.
But cities. How could I possibly say that City Lights Books in San Francisco was a far more religious experience for me than the small town of Cambria I wanted to live in right as I saw it? How does the tiny, comfortable, admittedly isolated main street of San Juan Capistrano proclaim itself better than Buena Park Downtown, the most honest mall I've seen from Florida to here?
I don't know if I could do it. And this is not going to progress with me suddenly striking up the courage to do so, convinced that my overall experience in Buena Park was more important to me than stopping in Salinas at The Steinbeck House to envy John Steinbeck's boyhood home being a historical landmark, wondering where I would make my own history one day. I think these four places introduced to me something true about California: As much as parts of Los Angeles are truly fake, as much as Beverly Hills tries to keep out death and undesirables, as much as Hollywood filmmaking seems so small while on location in the Santa Clarita Valley, there is a kind of heartfelt pride throughout the rest of the state about its history. That's not to say Los Angeles doesn't have its own history, what with Union Station still impressively bearing chandeliers from the 1930s, and Philippe's still serving to this day what has to be the greatest French dip sandwich in the country. But Los Angeles feels like it's so preoccupied with the current day's work, and planning ahead for the next day's work, that there's really no head turn toward the past, save for Day of the Dead festivities on Olvera Street, a most interesting tradition.
Buena Park always keeps tabs on its history. Now, granted, I haven't been beyond the city's self-named E-Zone District, where tourist attractions such as Medieval Times and Knott's Berry Farm reside, but I still feel it there too. It remembers what it was, and it keeps it in mind at all times. It is honest with itself. There are parts that feel run-down that the city seems not to mind, knowing that a city, any city, will have parts that aren't sparkling and bright-faced. It still embraces those parts as its history.
I have a book by Dean O. Dixon from the library, about Buena Park, in the "Images of America" series, and it contains photos all throughout Buena Park's history. Buena Park Downtown, my favorite mall in Southern California, and really the entire state, was built in 1961 and was first called Buena Park Mall. It doesn't look like a profitable mall, but that's what I love about it. Maybe the owners don't love that, but I love its low expectations. It knows it may not please everyone, but for those that are pleased, they are truly satisfied, as I was with a temporary bargain bookstore setting up shop and open on my birthday last year, and also back in December when I found it was occupying the second floor space where Steve & Barry's used to be (Steve & Barry's also had a first-floor space, accessible by escalator at the middle of the second floor, and elevator at one of the far ends of the store, but that's boarded up and obviously inacessible). I loved how this company figured that someone must want to buy books and though there were fewer people browsing when I was eagerly picking through the stacks at the smaller location, there were a lot more people at the bigger location, and I appreciated that. No matter what people read, at least they read.
But more than that, I think I loved Buena Park Downtown because it mirrored me. I'm not a sharp dresser. I don't believe in personal grooming habits when I'm at home at length. I shower, of course, and I use deodorant, but I don't comb my hair often. I prefer white t-shirts and lounge pants. No socks for me. Buena Park Downtown always felt the same way every time. The mall directories were there, the stores were there, and it didn't care where you went. There were no signs imploring you to go here or there for the latest sales. That was up to the stores if they wanted your business badly enough, and they kept to themselves. I think music did play throughout the mall, but it was so faint, that you only noticed it if you were actively seeking it.
I noticed on our last visit in December that nearly the entire first floor of the mall was taken up by John's Incredible Pizza Co. (http://www.johnspizza.com/), basically Chuck E. Cheese with a lot more games, no characters, and an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet. We looked in on it, walking a few feet in from the entrance, noticing that the buffet was tucked away, and you pay at the counter. For what, I'm not sure. I don't know if tokens were given out there, most likely you'd pay for the buffet there. But what most impressed me about the operation, besides there being nine locations Southern California-wide and I had never heard of the place (this isn't my regular part of SoCal anyway), was how wide it was. There used to be a uniform store on the first floor, and that probably went out of business and they knocked down that space in favor of John Parlet's business. I think the mall's owners were in favor of it because not only could they expect it to bring in more business than they had on the first floor (I also recall a small food court there that was nearly always empty), but they didn't have to be so concerned with individual spaces. This was a single operation taking up so much floor space and all responsibility for maintenance falls to this company. No floors outside stores for the mall to clean. I imagine this place will become for kids what Discovery Zone and Showbiz Pizza Place (before it became Chuck E. Cheese) were for me in Florida at those ages.
What most impresses me about Buena Park is that it stands quietly on its own. It is adjacent to Anaheim, which contains Disneyland, Disney's California Adventure, Downtown Disney, respectable-looking hotels and motels, and shithole hovels that try to call themselves "lodging." It hopes for patronage from those who visit Anaheim, but it doesn't expect it. And when it does get it, it is a fascinating experience.
The prime example is from December, when my family and I went to Po Folks restaurant. As mentioned before, I grew up on Po Folks in Florida, introduced to it while I was in a high chair, and hooked on it ever since. In Anaheim, there are dozens of restaurants that tired Disneygoers can try. There are steakhouses and seafood-centered joints, and simple diners, and of course options on the Downtown Disney property. Yet, at Po Folks, a fairly large family arrived from Disneyland and sat at a long table diagonal from us. We were sitting in a booth. I immediately admired this family because here were all these other restaurants they could go to in the Anaheim tourist trap, and they were adventurous enough, curious enough, to choose this. Disneyland was undoubtedly fun, but they wanted to be free of the Mouse's grip for a while and see what else was nearby. They found the right place. They ordered, they looked at digital photos taken hours earlier, they talked about their experiences. I was proud that a restaurant I so loved provided such welcome relief to this family to rest for a while.
In the men's restroom at Po Folks are vintage photographs in frames of various locations in Southern California. There's a rollercoaster at Seal Beach (where our dog Tigger came from) in the 1920s, and I don't recall seeing any Buena Park photos, but the sentiment is there. Besides the Southern theming and the tablecloths printed with old catalog items most likely from the late 1920s to the early 1930s (phonographs, dolls, pots and pans, you name it), they're clearly as respectful of Southern California history as Buena Park is of its history. It still lingers. Even while watching people walk from the half-Po Folks parking lot (the other half, along with part of Po Folks's half is, I believe, extra parking) to Medieval Times across the street, the ghosts still hover. You can really feel that something may have existed before Medieval Times and before Po Folks, whereas where I live, it's impossible to imagine anything existing before these clumped-together apartment complexes.
Unlike San Juan Capistrano, Cambria, and San Francisco, I'm not sure if I would have wanted to live in Buena Park. I never felt that pull like I did in those three locales. The problem for me would have basically been Los Angeles International as the only airport to work at. I'm impressed by LAX's sheer size, but it's not my kind of airport. Sometimes I like an airport I can get lost in, but I also want to work at one that doesn't take too long to know. By that, I mean, one in which the gates and concourses are familiar within a few days, and then keep adding more to the experience with each successive day, with some new detail not previously gleaned. I remember the first time I was at LAX, after arriving there from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, thoroughly certain that LAX was not an airport; it was its own civilization.
Of course, with Buena Park located in northwestern Orange County, there's John Wayne Airport. But still, I think Buena Park was one of those few places I fiercely connected with each time. It sounds presumptuous, what with not having ventured beyond the tourist district, but Buena Park always seemed to just stand by quietly, letting you take from it whatever you wanted. I've always loved that.
(I think this works, profiling each place from my experiences. Expect more soon.)
But cities. How could I possibly say that City Lights Books in San Francisco was a far more religious experience for me than the small town of Cambria I wanted to live in right as I saw it? How does the tiny, comfortable, admittedly isolated main street of San Juan Capistrano proclaim itself better than Buena Park Downtown, the most honest mall I've seen from Florida to here?
I don't know if I could do it. And this is not going to progress with me suddenly striking up the courage to do so, convinced that my overall experience in Buena Park was more important to me than stopping in Salinas at The Steinbeck House to envy John Steinbeck's boyhood home being a historical landmark, wondering where I would make my own history one day. I think these four places introduced to me something true about California: As much as parts of Los Angeles are truly fake, as much as Beverly Hills tries to keep out death and undesirables, as much as Hollywood filmmaking seems so small while on location in the Santa Clarita Valley, there is a kind of heartfelt pride throughout the rest of the state about its history. That's not to say Los Angeles doesn't have its own history, what with Union Station still impressively bearing chandeliers from the 1930s, and Philippe's still serving to this day what has to be the greatest French dip sandwich in the country. But Los Angeles feels like it's so preoccupied with the current day's work, and planning ahead for the next day's work, that there's really no head turn toward the past, save for Day of the Dead festivities on Olvera Street, a most interesting tradition.
Buena Park always keeps tabs on its history. Now, granted, I haven't been beyond the city's self-named E-Zone District, where tourist attractions such as Medieval Times and Knott's Berry Farm reside, but I still feel it there too. It remembers what it was, and it keeps it in mind at all times. It is honest with itself. There are parts that feel run-down that the city seems not to mind, knowing that a city, any city, will have parts that aren't sparkling and bright-faced. It still embraces those parts as its history.
I have a book by Dean O. Dixon from the library, about Buena Park, in the "Images of America" series, and it contains photos all throughout Buena Park's history. Buena Park Downtown, my favorite mall in Southern California, and really the entire state, was built in 1961 and was first called Buena Park Mall. It doesn't look like a profitable mall, but that's what I love about it. Maybe the owners don't love that, but I love its low expectations. It knows it may not please everyone, but for those that are pleased, they are truly satisfied, as I was with a temporary bargain bookstore setting up shop and open on my birthday last year, and also back in December when I found it was occupying the second floor space where Steve & Barry's used to be (Steve & Barry's also had a first-floor space, accessible by escalator at the middle of the second floor, and elevator at one of the far ends of the store, but that's boarded up and obviously inacessible). I loved how this company figured that someone must want to buy books and though there were fewer people browsing when I was eagerly picking through the stacks at the smaller location, there were a lot more people at the bigger location, and I appreciated that. No matter what people read, at least they read.
But more than that, I think I loved Buena Park Downtown because it mirrored me. I'm not a sharp dresser. I don't believe in personal grooming habits when I'm at home at length. I shower, of course, and I use deodorant, but I don't comb my hair often. I prefer white t-shirts and lounge pants. No socks for me. Buena Park Downtown always felt the same way every time. The mall directories were there, the stores were there, and it didn't care where you went. There were no signs imploring you to go here or there for the latest sales. That was up to the stores if they wanted your business badly enough, and they kept to themselves. I think music did play throughout the mall, but it was so faint, that you only noticed it if you were actively seeking it.
I noticed on our last visit in December that nearly the entire first floor of the mall was taken up by John's Incredible Pizza Co. (http://www.johnspizza.com/), basically Chuck E. Cheese with a lot more games, no characters, and an all-you-can-eat pizza buffet. We looked in on it, walking a few feet in from the entrance, noticing that the buffet was tucked away, and you pay at the counter. For what, I'm not sure. I don't know if tokens were given out there, most likely you'd pay for the buffet there. But what most impressed me about the operation, besides there being nine locations Southern California-wide and I had never heard of the place (this isn't my regular part of SoCal anyway), was how wide it was. There used to be a uniform store on the first floor, and that probably went out of business and they knocked down that space in favor of John Parlet's business. I think the mall's owners were in favor of it because not only could they expect it to bring in more business than they had on the first floor (I also recall a small food court there that was nearly always empty), but they didn't have to be so concerned with individual spaces. This was a single operation taking up so much floor space and all responsibility for maintenance falls to this company. No floors outside stores for the mall to clean. I imagine this place will become for kids what Discovery Zone and Showbiz Pizza Place (before it became Chuck E. Cheese) were for me in Florida at those ages.
What most impresses me about Buena Park is that it stands quietly on its own. It is adjacent to Anaheim, which contains Disneyland, Disney's California Adventure, Downtown Disney, respectable-looking hotels and motels, and shithole hovels that try to call themselves "lodging." It hopes for patronage from those who visit Anaheim, but it doesn't expect it. And when it does get it, it is a fascinating experience.
The prime example is from December, when my family and I went to Po Folks restaurant. As mentioned before, I grew up on Po Folks in Florida, introduced to it while I was in a high chair, and hooked on it ever since. In Anaheim, there are dozens of restaurants that tired Disneygoers can try. There are steakhouses and seafood-centered joints, and simple diners, and of course options on the Downtown Disney property. Yet, at Po Folks, a fairly large family arrived from Disneyland and sat at a long table diagonal from us. We were sitting in a booth. I immediately admired this family because here were all these other restaurants they could go to in the Anaheim tourist trap, and they were adventurous enough, curious enough, to choose this. Disneyland was undoubtedly fun, but they wanted to be free of the Mouse's grip for a while and see what else was nearby. They found the right place. They ordered, they looked at digital photos taken hours earlier, they talked about their experiences. I was proud that a restaurant I so loved provided such welcome relief to this family to rest for a while.
In the men's restroom at Po Folks are vintage photographs in frames of various locations in Southern California. There's a rollercoaster at Seal Beach (where our dog Tigger came from) in the 1920s, and I don't recall seeing any Buena Park photos, but the sentiment is there. Besides the Southern theming and the tablecloths printed with old catalog items most likely from the late 1920s to the early 1930s (phonographs, dolls, pots and pans, you name it), they're clearly as respectful of Southern California history as Buena Park is of its history. It still lingers. Even while watching people walk from the half-Po Folks parking lot (the other half, along with part of Po Folks's half is, I believe, extra parking) to Medieval Times across the street, the ghosts still hover. You can really feel that something may have existed before Medieval Times and before Po Folks, whereas where I live, it's impossible to imagine anything existing before these clumped-together apartment complexes.
Unlike San Juan Capistrano, Cambria, and San Francisco, I'm not sure if I would have wanted to live in Buena Park. I never felt that pull like I did in those three locales. The problem for me would have basically been Los Angeles International as the only airport to work at. I'm impressed by LAX's sheer size, but it's not my kind of airport. Sometimes I like an airport I can get lost in, but I also want to work at one that doesn't take too long to know. By that, I mean, one in which the gates and concourses are familiar within a few days, and then keep adding more to the experience with each successive day, with some new detail not previously gleaned. I remember the first time I was at LAX, after arriving there from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, thoroughly certain that LAX was not an airport; it was its own civilization.
Of course, with Buena Park located in northwestern Orange County, there's John Wayne Airport. But still, I think Buena Park was one of those few places I fiercely connected with each time. It sounds presumptuous, what with not having ventured beyond the tourist district, but Buena Park always seemed to just stand by quietly, letting you take from it whatever you wanted. I've always loved that.
(I think this works, profiling each place from my experiences. Expect more soon.)
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