We Are Still Connected

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.

Things are Rapidly Changing for the Better

Mom and Dad and Meridith went out to Enterprise in Mission Hills first to try to get our PT Cruiser off our hands, in the hope that they would give us a rental for our move to Las Vegas and then in Las Vegas, we'd go back to an Enterprise there and seek a new car. No dice. The one who made the deal for us at Enterprise is no longer there (he began attending law school) and the one in the Mission Hills office who could have helped wasn't there. So they went to CarMax in Burbank, and they were no help either, not offering enough to end our payments on the PT Cruiser.

Meanwhile, back in Santa Clarita, I was home because I want to finish all the issues of The Henderson Press before we move. Right now, I'm on Volume 3, No. 27, with nine more issues to go to get to Volume 3, No. 36, the most recent issue. This is how I'm spending the rest of my afternoon. But on Saturday, I was on Volume 3, No. 20. Good progress.

We had three showings on Saturday, with the latter two latter in the day, and I was here for both. The third showing, which had a family with a teenaged daughter, was the best one. They're the ones who made an offer today that could very well go through because all the paperwork is in hand, and everything that needed to be done before the offer was made is done. They have the necessary cash to start. We're not going to make much of anything on this deal, but it's about time this house goes to people who could really enjoy it. We never did. I know this family will.

On top of that, we have our new phone number, which I've already memorized (I memorized the address yesterday when I was changing magazine subscription addresses, including The New Yorker and Saveur, and our gate code, since our mobile home park is gated.

Unfortunately, since we'll likely be driving to Las Vegas in our PT Cruiser, which we have to pray for when we drive long distances, we're going to skip Primm, since it's more important to get to our new home. We can always go back anyway, and I'd prefer to do it in whatever new car we eventually get.

However, the upside is that we'll be celebrating Rosh Hashanah at Greenberg & Sons, a Jewish deli at New York-New York. At the same time we're there, Meridith wants to go to the Coney Island Emporium to see the cotton candy vending machine that was installed there, and if Mom and Dad don't mind hanging around New York-New York a little longer (that is, if they don't want to go with us), Meridith and I want to pop across the street to M&M World to see I Lost My M in Vegas, the 3D short film that plays on the 3rd floor every half hour. I'm looking forward to it because David Ruprecht, the host of Supermarket Sweep, voiced the dealer. It's also interesting to know that J.K. Simmons is in Las Vegas every day, because besides the commercials, he also voiced the Yellow M&M for this short film.

Also, today was Dad's last day at La Mesa Junior High. A student that he had seven years ago found out that he's leaving and drove all the way from wherever he's living now during lunchtime to see him. I'm still amazed.

Yesterday, I spent most of the afternoon checking if certain books I have are also available in the Clark County Library system. Most of them are, so I put them in paper bags for donations, and for now, I'm keeping the ones that aren't, such as Vending Machines: A Social History by Kerry Segrave. Not only does the Clark County system not have it, but I paid nearly 30 dollars for my copy and I'm not giving it up so quickly, especially since I haven't read it yet.

It's all starting to move swiftly, and there's still lots to throw out and lots to pack, but the reward at the end is everything I've ever wanted. There's nothing better than that.

Relishing the Calm Before the Busy

Yesterday was a domestic maze of vacuuming, straightening up shelves, and books in boxes, and DVDs in that one plastic blue storage bin I have. Everything had to be finished by 4:30, which was when our realtor was to arrive to take pictures to post in our "for sale" listing. He came at 4:41, took all the pictures, gave his impression on the current market in our area, and exclaimed over features he hadn't noticed before, which may help sell our place faster, including a door at the back of the garage that opens outside. Most units have doors that open into either the laundry room or the kitchen, but we also have one that opens into the master bedroom. Plus, two sensor lights in the patio, not just one.

There's still much to do. Mom wants to move the birds to the window in the middle of the dining room area, on top of that white cart, and move the table the birds' cage is sitting on next to our wooden, multi-shelf wall unit so we can put water and candy there for prospective buyers when they walk around. Plus, a cleaning service still has to come in to really vacuum deeply, scrub the tubs and the toilets, and get everything fully sparkling again.

So this is it. It's finally happening. And I'm sitting here, fully at peace, because I know that we'll finally have a city to call home, definitely by the end of the month. I'm not worried about the tasks still to come, about the packing, about loading the boxes onto the truck of whatever moving company we use, hoping it all gets there intact, unlike when we moved from Pembroke Pines, Florida to Valencia nine years ago, and half of our stuff was missing, and the other half looked like shit. Bad enough that I knew basically nothing about the Santa Clarita Valley right then, but we had to deal with this too.

It's much easier this time because we're moving to where we know we belong. Plus, instead of driving across the country in five days, it'll just take four hours and crossing one state line. California into Nevada, leaving California behind for good. Save for Buena Park and Baker, both of which I want to use in a novel and a play, respectively, I never want to know anything about California ever again. I understand that myriad residents of Southern California go to Las Vegas for the weekend, and that's fine. As long as they turn around and go back, I'll have no trouble with them. Fortunately, it's somewhat difficult to pick them out since the crowd on the Strip is so varied and so interesting. Las Vegas is for everyone, and I'm proud to soon be part of that.

I'm not worried about any of the tasks ahead. They'll all be done, we'll move into our new home (details to come, but not right away since we're still in the final stages, and it won't be ready to move into until the end of the month, which is exactly when we intend to move from here), and I'll begin exploring every inch of the Las Vegas Valley like never before. We'll get our new drivers' licenses, new library cards, I'll happily do whatever I must in pursuit of my new job, and life will be as great as it was for us back in 1992, the last time I think we were truly happy, when we lived in Casselberry, Florida, had annual passes to Walt Disney World, and our neighborhood in the Deer Run development was home. 20 years is a long time to go without the feeling of home, so it's no wonder I'm going to immediately eat up as much as I can right away. The excitement of a tourist inside a resident, but living more reasonably, since a resident cannot live like a tourist. We still have to keep regular hours, and get up early in the morning and go to work like anyone else who does the same around the world. The casinos being open around the clock, bless those who can work those late-night shifts and those well into the night. I couldn't.

It feels a little odd to be moving to where we finally belong. I'm not entirely used to that, just yet. It's brand-new to me. But I'm sure I'll adjust quickly once I see our new home in person and the full-on view of the Strip when you pull out of the development. This time, at least, the final time, I know exactly what it looks like and what to expect and all that I'll be able to enjoy there. A major improvement on knowing nearly nothing about our apartment in Valencia, thinking it would be one way, and it turning out to be completely different from what I thought it would be. This is accurate. I know the layout, I know our proximity to middle schools in the area, and how long it takes to get to the Strip, to the nearby Whitney library branch, and to my beloved Pinball Hall of Fame. I am truly going to be home. And I am at peace for good.

As It Was Before It Goes to Someone Else

The carpet next to and behind my TV turned from white, with all that accumulated dust, to green yesterday. My makeshift box bookshelves are no longer bookshelves, but rather boxes with books in them, boxes that are still surprisingly sturdy after eight years. 20+ bags filled with books, stuffed animals, and other things are sitting outside at our front door walkway, waiting to be picked up by Vietnam Veterans of America, which has a local branch here. They said they'd pick up as much as we have, and so not only is it the best way to clear all this out, but we're doing a mitzvah at the same time.

This place is looking like it was when we moved in, before someone else buys it. It's surprising to see my room so organized now, but I didn't bother until now because I never cared about this place. In Las Vegas, I'll care enough about our new home to keep my room organized, because I know I'll be home.

Besides all this, and still more cleaning to do by the end of the week, I'm motivated to finish reading all the issues of Henderson Press up to the latest. I still have the print edition my parents brought back from their recent trip, but I'll read the rest online. Looking at the website, I have 26 issues left. It's grown to 24 pages, but still good for many quick reads.

And a few days ago, Dad had a question that I was quick to answer: If I could go anywhere in Southern California once more before we move, where would I want to go? I answered, "The Buena Park Downtown mall and Downtown Disney in Anaheim." Those were two of the only cities that truly felt like cities to me in this region, full of personality and never ignoring their own history. I want to go to both once more, also because Buena Park Downtown will be a research trip for me since I want to get a feel for the atmosphere again, as a few scenes in one of my future novels takes place there.

That's been it. Still lots to do to get to where I know I'll write more than I ever have.

No One's Coming, But They Keep Trying

There we were today, the three of us waiting in our trusty, aging PT Cruiser while Dad went inside La Mesa Junior High to his classroom to print something he needed to send in the mail to a potential principal in Las Vegas. He parked horizontally across two spaces, getting us as close as possible to the view we had always liked, a view previously unobstructed by the slanting solar panels that provide a kind of roof over every parking space in the employee lot. The view is still as expansive, but now there's shade. It's a bowl-shaped jumble of houses and brush and roads and huge, circular, tan-colored water storage tanks, giving further evidence that this valley can be nothing more than the gloomy suburb of Los Angeles it has always been. However, it's never felt to me like a suburb because is a suburb really supposed to be 30 miles away from the city that feeds it? A suburb is supposed to be on the outskirts, sure, but not that far out, not when it requires a freeway or two to get there.

Mom and Meridith looked out at the view, but I merely glanced at it and then stared at what I could see of the school, the entrance to the office, the entrance to the Multi Purpose Room (MPR, as it's called by the administration over the walkie-talkies whenever they needed a custodian to open it), an entrance to the gym, the entrance to the custodians' office, the main gate leading into and out of the school, the only way the students can get in.

I always did the job I was hired to do there and I'm proud of that. I was a vigilant, careful campus supervisor, but that's not what was on my mind as I looked at those sections of totally empty campus, the only car in the lot besides ours belonging to the tech guy who fixes the computers and other technology around the school. Only when a campus is this empty do the ghosts come out, the ghosts of its history, wanting to be noticed, to be remembered. I know they're there and I can always feel them, but I wonder who they are. I looked at the doors to that particular entrance into the gym and wondered if there was some student who made a half-court shot on that basketball court inside and decided he wanted to be an athlete. I looked at the doors to the MPR, which inside has a small stage, and wondered if a student had ever stood on that stage, looked out, and thought of all the stories he or she could tell through their actions and emotions, and decided that they wanted to be an actor. I thought about the library, which I always liked, and wondered if a student ever read widely of those books, inspired enough to try writing on their own. Are those kids out there in the world now? Was it possible that La Mesa Junior High had produced such students? This isn't the kind of school whose alumni would want to have a reunion, since the students always struck me as having their own small groups, but never an overall camaraderie conducive to the spirit of the school. Students come, they learn, they go home.

Is there a history about this school that goes back years before we arrived in Santa Clarita? I think it's there somehow, but isn't allowed to bloom because of its location in a valley that always rushes headlong into the future and never slows down enough to consider what it is and where it has been. It's regrettable, but I hope there's some student, some future writer, who maybe sees more, much more than I ever could. Because when I walked around the school while I was a campus supervisor, when the kids were in class, the ghosts of its history called out then too. What did they want me to know? What were they trying to point me toward? Across from one of the special education classrooms, there's a large window that, behind it, has shelves with all kinds of artwork on them, such as pottery, clay figures, photographs, small paintings, and I always wondered who these students were, where they were at that point in their lives. Did they create those pieces, take those photos, paint those paintings because they genuinely felt something that they really wanted to express, or were they just doing it in order to get a passing grade on the assignment? I imagine it was a balance of both.

I know that these ghosts would not guide me to what they want me to know. I would have to figure it out for myself, if I was interested enough in this valley, if I wanted to try to make more out of it than it currently is, than it probably always will be. Besides my job, the only use I ever got out of the entire campus was that one building across from the office, a take on adobe architecture that inspired me to just stand far enough back on it to see the top as well, and imagine that I was in New Mexico. I'm grateful to it for that, for giving me those few moments when the kids were in class and I could do that. I want to travel throughout New Mexico so badly, and this was my way of going there briefly, at least for now.

But what of its history besides gradually aging buildings? There are many, many middle schools in this valley and what makes one different from the other anyway? They all take in students and then a few years later push them out into high school. The names of the middle schools don't lend themselves to much history: Sierra Vista, Placerita, Rancho Pico, Castaic, Canyon. I do wonder if those names were chosen as a reflection of the valley or just what real estate forces came up with when they built and built and built. The only real history of the schools is in one of the districts being called the William S. Hart Union School District, but I doubt anyone really thinks about William S. Hart anymore. It's just not the valley for it.

But the ghosts will keep calling, keep wailing, keep hoping for someone to come along to notice them, to acknowledge them, to see that they were there before, that they did many things in this valley. They'll still be at La Mesa, they'll still be in my neighborhood, and in fact, I still sense those ghosts whenever I roll the garbage and recycling bins to the curb every Monday evening and back every Tuesday evening. I look at those hillsides and wonder if there were any cowboys back then. Did this valley ever have an adventurous spirit? I want to think that it did, but my first visit here, in April 2003, was on one of the rainiest days this valley has apparently ever had, very cold, and with pinprick rain. No life at all in this valley, and not only because of the rain. I should think a lively city would show it, even through the rain. Something interesting, something to look at, something to think about and see that, yeah, this something is so very much a part of this city or valley that it's impossible to imagine it without it. I didn't get that feeling there. I should have known.

But I leave without animosity, because to dwell on it is to waste more time that I can use in my new home. Someone else may sense those ghosts of history and do something for them, or the history, whatever it may be, will just keep on fading. It's as hard the 106-degree heat today, but that's the way it goes here. I mildly hope for it, but I don't count on it. I'm glad to have felt those ghosts, especially in Buena Park, Anaheim, Ventura, and San Juan Capistrano, where I know history will always be safe and acknowledged. But Santa Clarita has been a prime example of the kind of living I can't stand. I need history around me, I need to know what happened before I got there, and also long before, and I could never find that path into it here. Those ghosts will keep trying, though. I'm sure of it.

I Couldn't Believe It Until It Was True

Over the past five years, Dad has occasionally recounted stories of people he's met through his work at La Mesa and other residents of Santa Clarita who say that they have lived in this valley all their lives and have never lived. If Dad was to be believed, these people did all their errands in Santa Clarita, did not go to Los Angeles for anything, or Ventura, or Burbank, or Anaheim, or any other part of the Southern California region. I don't know if that stands for vacations as well, them never going on vacations to anywhere in the U.S. or internationally, but I've never pressed for that kind of information since it never really interested me. Plus, that sounded impossible. This valley offers little enough as it is. If they lived in Ventura or San Juan Capistrano or Anaheim, I could see them never leaving where they're living for anything. But Santa Clarita? To do anything interesting here, you have to leave, or at least go to Six Flags Magic Mountain for the day, which is separate enough from the valley in presentation and what it offers to not feel like part of this valley.

Last Thursday, at the Walmart on Kelly Johnson Parkway that overlooks Magic Mountain from the parking lot, a significantly heavyset, balding guy in his 60s, who mopped sweat from his forehead at one point, even though the store was air-conditioned, took the same turn as I did round a corner of the store and the aisle narrowed between us. I let him go first, and then we got into a conversation about the day, then about freeways, and then into his history. He lived in New York City in the late '50s and early '60s, then moved to Santa Clarita in '68 or '69, back when roads would dead-end, long before the valley looked like it does now. It was all farmland. He's lived here since then, doesn't like how rude kids are here, hates Las Vegas (he still believes that it's partly run by the Mafia), and asked me if I was seriously going to buy the pair of Rustler jeans I was holding onto, a light blue pair that I favor more than the dark blue pair I have now, but which I still wear because it's not ripped, and I don't like to spend money on jeans unless I have to. This time I had to, to replace one pair that doesn't fit me, that I thought fit me when I bought it long ago. It's not a matter of weighing more than I did then, just that I miscalculated. So I have this new pair (I told the guy, just laughing it off, that I wasn't thinking of buying it, to deflect him from his subtly derisive question), and I'll look for another when we go to the Walmart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive. One more pair will do it and then I'll have three and that will be enough.

Anyway, during the story of his arrival in Santa Clarita, this guy told me that he finds it a waste to go to Downtown Los Angeles to a show because of all the traffic that surrounds the Staples Center and the Ahmanson Theatre. He continued talking, and I responded with nods of understanding and vocal acknowledgments, but in my mind, I was thinking, "You can't be serious! Oh my god, Dad was right! These people, previously fictional to me, do exist!" I didn't think much of the guy, because he seemed too bitter to me to be able to live life comfortably (Yeah, there's crap in life, but it's not all bad. It's all in how you live it and how you meet the circumstances you face), but here was proof that somehow, some way, people make their lives here. Now I believe it.

I consider it to be the valley further separating from me and vice versa. It's giving me information and truth I don't think I ever would have discovered if I stayed here. It's a farewell gift to me. Besides, as soon as I get to Las Vegas, I'll forget it all anyway, so there's no harm in it revealing such truths.

The Second Farewell Tour

Last Friday afternoon, with Mom and Dad still in Vegas, having a full day of looking at other apartments and mobile home parks just in case (they found where we're going to live, but just wanted to look at possible backups that we hopefully don't have to use. I'll elaborate some other time), the extensive changes I saw at College of the Canyons didn't surprise me as much as total ignorance of history yet again, which I know is to be expected from the Santa Clarita Valley, but this time, it was truly breathtaking.

During the First Farewell Tour, I decided on that Wednesday that we should have a Second Farewell Tour, to our old apartment in Valencia, and to College of the Canyons to see what has changed since Meridith and I went there as students, my time there further back than hers. Then a walk around the mall, not so much a Farewell Tour since we've been there many times already, but rather as a reminder of the better life to come in Las Vegas with better malls, not just a repository for Hot Topic and Forever 21.

The apartment, situated behind a shopping center that includes Pavilions supermarket and Peet's Coffee and Tea, was the same as the last time we went, a few months prior. It's a revolving-door apartment. No one stays for very long. It's either a starter, or just temporary digs until fully deciding what to do. For us, unfortunately, it was a starter. If we had stayed there for all these nearly eight years, I still wouldn't have liked Santa Clarita, but it wouldn't have been as bad to me as it is. It was peaceful, the one place in Valencia where you could truly clear your head of all the noise and make your own oasis, filling it with whatever you wanted. You want only music and books? You can have it. You want to spend all your free hours at the pool behind, but connected to, the clubhouse? It's yours.

I remember a second-floor neighbor who had his fish tank balanced on the ledge of his patio, plugged into the socket out there. I don't know how he maintained that balance, but he must have had some serious confidence. Very little probably worried him.

In that apartment complex, you always meet people very briefly, but the few impressions you get are nothing of the shallowness that pervades the rest of the valley. People are just trying to make their way through the day, hoping to live it how they want. The clubhouse staff, those in the rental office mainly, were really the only shallow-looking ones. Nothing much to them. But that was it. You could go to Stevenson Ranch, you could go to other parts of Valencia, you could go to whatever parts of L.A. you wanted, see the mindlessness, come back and know that your apartment would not be bombarded by all of that. It was truly home for a time. Not a home I could have seen myself in for the rest of my life, but suitable for when we were there. We should have stayed there longer and not moved into pretty much total isolation in Saugus.

After stopping at Jamba Juice, and then the post office to drop off my check to the IRS, Meridith and I walked to College of the Canyons. No bus needed like the one we took from Saugus to that Pavilions shopping center. I wanted to show Meridith the route I sometimes walked, though it was from the bus transfer station to COC, yet we walked through that transfer station on our way. Meridith always waited for the bus because she was loaded down with textbooks, binders, and her knife kit for her cooking classes. She'd never seen that rising and falling set of sidewalks like the ones we walked, like the ones I walked all those years ago.

Getting to the campus, I saw the sober-gray parking lot signs that hadn't been there when I was there. Comparing my time there to Meridith's time, my COC was bare bones. My cafeteria at the back of the Student Center had long tables tucked into corners, my favorite being one in the way back of the cafeteria, on the far right, if you're standing at the entrance. Instead of doing my math homework, I'd read many books, but mostly Subways are for Sleeping by Edmund G. Love whenever I got a copy from either the Hawthorne or Norwalk branch of the County of Los Angeles library system through my Valencia branch.

Those tables are gone, replaced by one small circular table with bluish armchairs around it, and one at the other end of the same arrangement. I think there were long tables on the main cafeteria floor as well, or maybe not, but now there's a lot more circular tables with black chairs around it. The kitchen areas were closed, including the Subway stand (that's closed until the start of the fall semester since they don't make significant money during the summer, being that those areas are only open until noon or 1 p.m. during the summer), but I noticed that the Subway stand was moved from the start of the area to the end, facing the cafeteria, and where it previously had been now has beverage refrigerators lining that wall. I don't know how COC manages to do it, but that wall looked solid, just like many other walls I saw.

After the cafeteria, Meridith took me over to Hasley Hall, where she had attended one or two classes, and which had never been there when I was there. Not completely there. It was just beginning construction when I was there. But now, this washed-out gray building with automatic glass doors that slide apart when you approach them, a burbling small waterfall on the ground floor, and the film department now having its own theater there, I first wondered where in the hell the school had gotten all the money for this building, and then was impressed with what they had done. They have turned education there into even more of a sanctuary. People can study whatever COC offers in complete peace. The classrooms are most impressive, wide and without the usual stigma of costly education. I'll bet this is exactly why fees have gone up and up time and again, which makes me glad I graduated long ago. Plus, the former journalism department has a cluster of rooms there too, although the in-print Canyon Call was disbanded and now COC has Cougar News Online, which to me is vastly disappointing because newbie journalists should have the pleasure of seeing their name and their words in print. I know that the industry is veering from that, but on a community college campus, journalism students need that. I have all five weeks of my time as interim editor of The Signal's weekend Escape section in print. It wouldn't be the same to me online. I can flip through those pages, know why I put in what I put in, what I was also doing when I wrote my own articles for the section, and what I was already thinking about for the next week. These are my memories in print.

Knowing that here was the journalism department on the second floor of Hasley Hall, and there was the film department on the first floor, what happened to the building formerly known as the M building, now known as Mentry Hall? (That's another thing: They gave actual names to these buildings, no doubt based on how much money those names donated, but it was simpler to just have letters. The buildings don't change much on the outside just because they're given names.)

We went to the second floor of the building because that's where the screening room was for the film department. It's still there, but the door was locked, so I couldn't see if anything had changed, though I doubt it. No reason for it to change.

My biggest shock was on the first floor of Mentry Hall, where the former newsroom of the Canyon Call was. The door was open, and right in front of me, a white wall. The glass case displaying old cameras was nice to see, and obviously a clue into what this part of the building now was. When we walked in, two darkrooms were to our left. To our right, what used to be the offices for journalism advisors Jim Ruebsamen and Lila Littlejohn (who has worked as the editor-in-chief at The Signal and now the City Editor, I think), are now either still faculty offices or conference rooms. But next to those rooms were just solid wall. They had torn out that newsroom and now there's only walls. How did they do it so fast? Is there anything still within those walls or is it truly solid wall?

Oh, but that's not all. We went up to the second floor of Towsley Hall, and where I used to take that door across from one of the elevators into a hallway to go to my English class, there's only two classrooms in that now-small section of space, one across from the other. That's it. Where did the other classrooms go? And again, how fast did they tear them down? Because that being solid wall, nothing behind it can remain.

I'm not against that kind of widespread change. The College of the Canyons I knew is not the College of the Canyons my sister knew, and that's not the College of the Canyons current students know. I can live with that, just like how Walt Disney World today is not the Walt Disney World I knew. But at least in that case, there are fans and Disney historians who know what came before, who have memorabilia related to those times, who know what the parks looked like before various changes in different years. I know that I can't expect the same because this is Santa Clarita after all, but COC could use a historian in much the same way. Did someone at least take photos of those hallways now gone? Does the library keep such records? I don't know and I don't think I ever will know, nor do I want to because it's not my place. I hope there are, though, because I remember, and I'm sure not staying here.

Across from the extensively grassy Honor Grove area, where students laze about and where graduation ceremonies are held at the end of terms, and under Towsley Hall, Meridith and I stood at an automat-type vending machine in which you press either the left or right arrow buttons and the racks spin, revealing sandwiches, Red Bulls, ramen cups, burritos, plastic spoons and forks. You find what you want, line the plastic door up to where you want it, put in your money, slide that door open and take out what you want. I asked Meridith to take a photo of it:



I don't remember if this vending machine was around when I was at COC, but it looks old enough to have been there during my time. I never went into that area much, so I wouldn't have noticed anyway. But it seems like the only constant you can find at COC now are the vending machines. Sure they took out the candy vending machine with M&Ms and Snickers and Reese's, and so much other good candy in California's Quest for Better Health (not a name of any program, but that's the attitude of it), but that's just one machine. The others I knew are still there.

The library is all I'm really grateful for at COC because it sustained me in the weeks after we moved to Santa Clarita, when I was trying to figure out what all this was and where I could fit into it if we had to live there. I found a bit of that fitting in at The Signal, but not enough to really feel like I was part of something good. Granted, I gained necessary experience that I could use for what I want to pursue next as a writer, but that wasn't quite enough. At the library, I had all those books, all those novelists to pull down and read, and it was different from going to the Valencia library because it wasn't as public. It was just me and those books. Mine to figure out what I wanted. I could sit on the floor with one long bookcase looming in front of me and one behind me and never have to get up for anyone passing by.

Alas, the library was closed by the time we got to COC (It closes at noon during the summer and we got there after 1 p.m.), but that was ok. It's not my library anymore; it belongs to others. This campus hasn't been mine in so long, but I can still see those ghosts, knowing that that wall used to be the Canyon Call newsroom, knowing that those two classrooms used to be a hallway to English department classrooms.

It's different at the mall. On our walk to COC, we passed by construction of a pool behind the Gold's Gym building, which used to be Borders. I couldn't imagine where there would be room for a pool, but a no-longer-used loading dock is a good place to have it. A Gold's Gym across from Wolf Creek Restaurant & Brewing Co., and near the Edwards Valencia 12 movie theater is still odd to me, but these changes don't really matter. Businesses will take up space wherever they can find it. Thank god for Chipotle, though. That was the best quesadilla I have had in a very long time, much less greasy than Chronic Tacos makes them.

Facing Las Vegas, I won't miss anything in Santa Clarita. But if I was to miss anything about this valley, COC doesn't rank very highly, not even for sentimental reasons with the library. An education haven, sure. A quiet campus at which to study. And at the now-COC Performing Arts Center (it had a few other names over the years), I saw Frank Ferrante as Groucho Marx in a one-man show, and Hal Holbrook as Mark Twain in a one-man show. I sure won't forget those. But there is nothing at that campus that I will pine for, because the UNLV campus has it beat. It's huge, and even if you just drive around, you can still get lost if you don't have a general idea of where you're going. You have to pay attention to those signs around the campus. I still haven't seen the library, though I want to, I want to tap into any historical archives they have there, I want to play at the arcade there, I want to look around in that bookstore again, and I know I'm going to have a lot of fun there, even though I'm not a student. They welcome everyone, no matter why you're there.

Letting Me Go Easy

The Santa Clarita Valley and I have always been at odds, as has been well-documented. But last night, we agreed on a permanent truce, triggered by a simple act.

I've never believed that there are any truly good people living here, just vapid, shallow people, with the great exception of former Signal columnist and weekend Escape editor John Boston, who was my mentor at the newspaper for a time, who showed me through his methods of writing and editing how to feel truly free in one's work, to explore anything, and to write about it too. He was just one person, though. What about the rest of the valley, which to me has never had heart, never compassion, never any indication that it cares?

I could say that tonight was just coincidence, but I like to believe that it was the valley's doing, offering the end of our always-fractured relationship. The Showtime series Episodes turned me from an unfortunate resident back into a very happy tourist, but I also needed to emotionally disconnect from this valley. And I have.

Throughout the evening, I heard splashes and little-kid voices from the community pool that the right side of our large patio overlooks. Also some adult voices, but mainly the shouts of those kids. As nighttime officially arrived with a near-to-8 p.m. darkness, I heard a thump on our patio, across from our kitchen window facing the "neighbor" across from us (not really a neighbor in that sense, just the standard definition of one who simply lives across from you). I opened the door that leads to the patio and heard the little boy of the group tell his grandfather that he wanted to draw things, be an animator, and his grandfather jokingly replied, "Are you going to make enough money to take care of your grandfather?" These kids sounded like the most well-behaved group that ever visited the pool in the nearly seven years we've lived in this place.

I turned on the patio lights and found a new, green tennis ball on the ground. I picked it up and wondered where it came from: Was a nearby neighbor too overzealous with throwing the tennis ball a short distance to their dog? Then I realized that it must have come from the kids because it sounded like they were also playing on the path that leads from the pool area to the pool gate, which passes right by the high wall of our patio. So they threw it, and it landed there.

I debated whether to keep it, give it to Kitty, but she loves her orange tennis balls. I had no use for it because I don't play tennis and the basketball in my room is my ball of choice. I walked over to that wall and threw the ball back down the path toward the pool area. I heard one of the kids exclaim, "Someone threw it back!" and in unison, whether two or three kids, I heard "Thank you!" I called back, "No problem!", and went back inside.

Living in Santa Clarita for nearly eight years and experiencing other parts of Southern California, you learn a lot about who people are, how to tell right away whether they'll help you or harm you in some way, what they want from you, and if they're sincere. I am grateful to this region to have learned all that without having to play poker to learn, but hated all the baggage that came with it, all that I had to endure.

This was nice. This felt to me like the valley's truce. And it came after learning that Dad's job interview went well, that Mom and Dad may very well have found our home in Las Vegas. All I'll say so far is that it's in Las Vegas. They'll probably look at more developments tomorrow to have a backup plan just in case, but if this works out, we'll be residents of Las Vegas. There are enough stores nearby to please Mom, so we have the basics in food shopping and anything else we might need; it's eight miles from the Strip, and Mom told us that you can't see it from inside this development, but when you pull out, there it is: My desert dream. I've also learned about my potential home library branch, and received the happy news that my beloved Pinball Hall of Fame is only four miles from there.

Perhaps the valley knows before I do that we'll be leaving very soon. I hope so. I'm still not happy that we spent all these years here, but what happened last night makes me reconcile the fact that that time is gone and now it's time to make up for it, quicker than I ever imagined. Because there will not only be a lot to make me quickly forget about the unhappy experiences I've had here in Santa Clarita, but I'll be so busy with research for books and novels I want to write about Las Vegas that it may be like I've never known anything else but Las Vegas, save for our happy years in Casselberry, Florida up to 1992, of which I see Las Vegas as a continuation after a very long interruption.

From Santa Clarita, I take only my detailed education in how to read people. And I'm grateful that it let me go easy. My heart, mind, and soul are already in Las Vegas, and my body is just waiting to get there.

The First Farewell Tour

Mom and Dad set out for Las Vegas in a rented Chevy HHR yesterday afternoon, a little after 2. They'll be back on Saturday, which leaves Meridith and I to do whatever we want, but without use of the PT Cruiser since we don't drive the roads here, and it's the only car we have right now between the four of us. Even if they were home, we still wouldn't use it, because it has to be treated very delicately, and even if we would, it's not worth it because we still need it to get around and it can't go great, great distances. Plus we're looking to trade it in for a younger car when the time comes. It's aging rapidly.

So, with time to ourselves, what to do....

Basketball?

Check.

Sunscreen?

Check.

A water bottle for each of us?

Check.

A plastic bag for the basketball and the water bottles?

Check.

Meridith wanted to go to the Circle K near our place, so that was our first stop. She was looking for new spicy-flavored Slim Jims: Chili pepper, jalapeno, and habanero. Circle K had them, but they were only the monster sizes.

Next was Circle K and they only had mild Slim Jims, since the customers they get are often mild-mannered.

Then we walked through the Seco Canyon Village shopping center, which looks nothing like a village, but of course the name of a shopping center or a strip mall is never supposed to reflect what it is. It's supposed to be more than the setting actually is, with the hope of blinding people to how dull it is. Or at least that's how it is with Seco Canyon Village, which offers a veterinarian, dry cleaners, Papa John's, dentist's office, a vaguely Italian restaurant, and a credit union bank. CVS is the anchor of this shopping center. Very small. Doesn't feel at all like a home shopping center.

To walk from our apartment to way out to the intersection next to Rite Aid is about 1.9 miles. 1.9, and it took us three hours to walk there and back with many stops on the way. We walked from CVS through that shopping center, past many neighborhood entrances, to the park to see if anyone was playing basketball. If the court was empty, we were going to shoot some hoops. We're not that good that we can play a full game.

The hoops were being used, so we kept on walking, past the elementary school, to the 7-11 on that side of the street where we also didn't find the regular size spicy Slim Jims Meridith wanted. After that, we crossed the intersection to the Shell gas station convenience store to check, and nothing there either.

Then Rite-Aid, first to look for the Slim Jims and finding the same mild ones that CVS had, and then, hey! How about some ice cream? They've got that Thrifty ice cream with scoops that look like rounded squares. A scoop of butter pecan for me in a sugar cone and a scoop of Circus Animal Cookie ice cream in a regular cone for Meridith, with the frosted cookies mixed into the ice cream. Not pieces; whole. Meridith found three in her scoop.

We walked the length of that Rite Aid shopping center, remembering that the Goodwill store was in the back. Once we got to the corner of it, Meridith called Mom and told her about our walk so far and that we got ice cream, and Mom said to her that we sure know how to make the most of our time. We sure do. Plus, she and Dad were going to Golden Corral in Hesperia, a buffet we haven't seen since Florida, so it was only right that we did something good for ourselves, and that was ice cream at Rite Aid. But that wasn't all.

I love the old books at Goodwill, seeing what people owned before that's now in these stores. When we walked past the kitchen items to get to the books, I said to Meridith that it's like looking in other people's houses, except it's legal!

I was also looking for a VHS copy of Neil Simon's I Ought to Be in Pictures, since it still hasn't been released on DVD, and I wanted to own it on VHS since I still have a VCR, and it's the same reason I own The Glass Menagerie, starring Joanne Woodward, John Malkovich, Karen Allen, and James Naughton, on VHS. I want these two movies on DVD already and I think that day may be coming soon since Warner Bros. has the Warner Archive and Sony has its own made-on-demand disc service, releasing previously unreleasable old movies for fear that they wouldn't turn a profit. But here's a way for people to have them and for the studios to still make money.

The walk to this intersection and the long walk back, through those neighborhoods, past a blue clapboard house with a country feel that I want to find a variation of in Las Vegas one day (not as a house, but as an apartment or something of that ilk), was to look at this area more closely, to see what we didn't see very often because we always drive right by it, to feel more the fact that this valley can never rise from what it is. I know it even more now. It seems to be fine with what it is, but it's not my kind of fine, so that's good enough reason to finally move on out. And yet, it was also to do what we've never done in these 7 and 3/4 years we've lived in Saugus: To get ice cream from Rite Aid and just walk around. To sit at a picnic table at the park to rest our feet after a long walk, which was much more out of necessity than a wish, but we've never sat down at those tables, just to sit and watch the little scenery there is, the cars blazing by, the people walking around the park, the people walking past us with dogs who it turns out were headed for a dog obedience class being held in a nearby section of the park.

It didn't increase the goodwill I've never had toward this valley, but it made me realize that somehow, people have found their lives here. I don't know how they do it, and certainly they're made of different material than I am, and that's good. It's home for them, and they treat it as they please. Their ways don't jibe with my ways. Therefore, still no connection to this valley after all these years, which is as expected. I will leave with no regrets, nothing to reconsider. I found the limited scenery peaceful at least, even with the traffic right near me. So there was that, but still never enough.

On the walk to 7-11, Meridith and I planned what I call our Second Farewell Tour. It may or may not be tomorrow, depending on if someone comes out to fix our broken washer, but it will definitely be either Thursday or Friday. We were originally planning to go to Valencia Town Center Mall to try the burgers from Burger King's summer BBQ menu, since we both tried the bacon sundae last Sunday, and we'll still do that, but we also want to walk to College of the Canyons and walk around the campus to see how our old haunts have changed (the library and a table far in the back at the cafeteria for me; that same table for my sister since she hung out there with her friends) and how the campus has changed in general from when we both went there at separate times. We haven't been back since we each graduated from there, and I would like to go to the bookstore once without hyperventilating over how much I have to pay for a textbook, which I did every time I went there as a student. Now I can do it as an outsider and laugh at those prices. But if they have any Sam Shepard plays for the theater classes again, I'll buy them used, or new if the price is reasonable. Plus I want to see what the English department is pushing these days. Plus I'd like to see the old journalism newsroom which they might be using for something else, since student journalism classes were cancelled in 2009 and the Canyon Call newspaper was disbanded, long after I left. Apparently, there's an online news publication, so they may be using that newsroom now.

Mom and Dad are in Las Vegas for a job interview Dad has on Thursday, and starting today, they're going to look at mobile home parks they've researched. Nothing barren or hopeless-looking. They've found a few that apparently have a community feel and they want to investigate further, including a senior mobile home park that allows Meridith and I there too, since we're over 18. That's Mom's first stop, and she'll go from there. She's hoping that it'll be as easy as when they found the Super 8 that they're staying at on the Strip, across from Bellagio, with views of Planet Hollywood, the Cosmopolitan, and a slight view of New York-New York. I think it will be, because it happened exactly like this 7 and 3/4 years ago. They went back to Southern California in late July 2003, while Meridith and I stayed home with Tigger in our condo in Pembroke Pines, Dad had a job interview then too, got the job, and they found our apartment in Valencia. We're hoping that it plays out exactly the same way because this will be the first time we've felt at home anywhere since 1992, when we sadly left Casselberry in Central Florida for Coral Springs in South Florida, after having spent many happy years there. Happiness is coming again!

For now, the Second Farewell Tour is coming, and it's necessary. When I needed to find some kind of footing in Santa Clarita, to get clear of that frenzied cross-country move from South Florida to Southern California, to figure out who I was in Southern California, that library at College of the Canyons was there for me, and so was the empty campus at 3:50 p.m. every Friday afternoon, after my cinema class, which I loved to walk before I began my walk from the campus to the bus transfer station across from the mall property. Peace in the middle of a vortex. That's what it was. I need to see it one more time, to see what changed, and to remember and to appreciate again. Besides my family, at least that was there.

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.