California, Part....What, 14? 23?

Today was my sister's 21st birthday. She passed the last toll booth before full legality. She can drink, though like me, like our parents, she's not into it. She and my mom no longer have to walk the periphery of a casino just because she's underage. The next time we go to Vegas, we can all sit together at a row of slot machines if we want. She can watch some of the action at the blackjack and craps tables, she can watch the spinning roulette wheel a lot more closely than she could in the many times we've been to Las Vegas. Her gift was a three-year subscription to Food Network Magazine, introduced by the latest issue on newsstands, which we bought for her a few days ago, wrapped by Mom. There were also SweeTarts, which she loves, put into a plastic container that formerly held cotton candy. Dinner was at Hooters in Burbank, and, I have to admit, black women look more astounding than white women in those outfits. One of our waitresses was a trainee, working alongside her tutor, and my god, I couldn't stop looking. I did it subtly of course, but wow. It wasn't a matter of her filling the outfit nicely, but just bringing more smooth, totally confident beauty to it than any others I've seen before in it.

I've been frustrated with Southern California for nearly the entire six and a half years we've lived here. And after we got home from Vegas about a week and two days ago, I saw that compared to Boulder City (where we might live when it comes time, because the houses have character and there's wide, wide spaces that make it feel like a vacation every single day), the Santa Clarita Valley is basically crushed together. Houses nearly on top of each other; no room between businesses. In Golden Valley (which is commonly known here as "Ghetto Valley," yet is still part of this valley), there's a McDonald's with this incredible view of just the mountains, just the houses, and at night, so many lights, yet it all seems artful. Well, it used to have that view. The last time we went, there was a gas station being built next to it, blocking out that view, and I'm sure that gas station is open by now.

In Boulder City, my family and I looked out at Lake Mead from the side of a curving road, standing behind a guardrail, overlooking houses below us, and I felt like I was home. I could breathe easier, hell, I could breathe. That was enough. The air was so clean, and my Mom felt far less pain in her legs than she does back in the valley. My dad talked to either the town's Chamber of Commerce or someone somewhat related to that, and they said that they will not allow Clark County to bring in gaming. No casinos. The closest casino you'll find is right before the sign indicating that Hoover Dam is getting closer. It's the Hacienda Hotel and Casino and it sits on its own plot of land, nowhere near any houses. We've been there before, though not recently, and there's a walkable cliff a few hundred yards away, where the view is like all the dreams I've ever had combining to create that view.

I bring this up because of an important realization that came to me while we were going to Hooters, one that had eluded me all this time. I'm sure there are many who like the different regions of California, seeing each as an adventure, with so much to be explored. I hate it. I understand the appeal, and I loved stopping at John Steinbeck's house, and in Hollister at Casa de Fruta, and that tour at Hearst Castle. But as we passed under the sign for Burbank, I looked at many of the other city names that passed by on those signs and I realized that I can't stand being a tourist in every single area. We went to Chinatown some weeks ago, after going to Philippe's for lunch. I was a tourist, despite being a resident of California. We drove past IKEA and Borders in Burbank to get to the section of the parking garage across from IKEA that was closest to the entrance to Hooters. I saw the entrance to the mall as we made a right turn. I felt like a tourist.

I don't want to feel like a tourist anymore. I don't want all these locations to be homogenized, but I want there to be some kind of connection. In Florida, as a native, I got that. We'd go to Downtown Fort Lauderdale, and it didn't feel like a new foreign land. There was the science museum, the small hotels across from the sand of the beach, the Main Library branch of the Broward County Library system, and a small park. We'd go to Miami Beach and I still felt like a resident of the entire state, not just one section. Am I a resident of California, Part 14, or California, Part 23? I'm not sure.

In Southern Nevada, I get that feeling of being a resident in one state, with everything around me relating to what the state is. There's gambling, there's a vast desert landscape, there's Carson City where the legislature is and it's so removed from the majority of the population in Clark County. We went to Henderson and yes, it was gigantic, and yes, there was cookie-cutter housing which I've never liked, but I knew where I was, not just by name. I felt like I could navigate the streets easily. Henderson and Boulder City are connected by Las Vegas, but at least they connect to something. These different cities of Southern California, separated by all these freeways, seem like frayed wires splayed out on a sidewalk, each sparking in its own way, but never destined to intertwine. I want that intertwined feeling. I know I can get it in Southern Nevada. I need space, as I get in Boulder City, but I also need to feel like a resident of a state, not just the resident of a section of the state, despite paying the various taxes involved with the state. Maybe that's why I've been frustrated during many of the years we've lived here, why I've never had a genuine feeling of contentment. I need things to be as close as they can possibly get, while also remaining far apart enough to let the landscape have its turn to be seen, without all those insane freeways. I-95 in Florida. That was it to get to Fort Lauderdale. There's a little more involved in getting back to Las Vegas from Boulder City, but at least it feels like there's as little to be done as driving I-95. And I can't wait for that, full time.

Always, Always.

I'm not reticent about Las Vegas. I know it's home. It's only four hours from here, and crossing that state line into Nevada, it's a good feeling that crawls in and never wants to find a way out. I see part of the Strip up ahead as we approach, and I know I belong. I feel like I'm as commonplace there as the black Luxor pyramid, especially at night with that extremely bright beam of white light. I always wonder if anyone knows we're coming. Not Bob, the manager of America's Best Value Inn on Tropicana Avenue, where we've stayed all the times we've been in Vegas. The security people, I guess, those who man the cameras, those pit bosses who walk the casino floors. I'm not that much of a risk, and I'm sure to them, I'm invisible, a nothing tourist, and I'm glad to be that for now. I can't wait to be more as a resident, hopefully in the months to come. But I always wonder if they get some kind of inkling that I'm coming. The slot machines certainly know. No luck with those on the last trip.

It's not ego, mind you. It's more like seeking a feeling of connection, which I already have with ABVI. I never had that here in Southern California. In 2003, our starting point was the Airtel Plaza Hotel in Van Nuys, across from Van Nuys Executive Airport, which I enjoyed for watching the private planes take off and land. When my parents went back for more job interviews for my dad about two months later, they stayed there. Yet, we don't visit it often. The last time we passed by it was to get to Fry's Electronics, the one with the Alice in Wonderland theming, I think. We've never pulled into that parking lot. I don't regret it, but I know that when we do move to Las Vegas, we'll probably stop by ABVI once in a while. We know that's where we started. And we know it'll be there. Yes, Airtel is still there, but it doesn't have that quiet, welcoming feeling to it. I suppose, in a way, I have more of a connection to ABVI, especially recently (a year and four months ago) because of the basketball hoop that my sister and I found on the property. We don't play often. Just bad shots that make it into the hoop once in a while. But to do that in the shadow of the MGM Grand, next to Hooters Casino Hotel, seeing the Luxor pyramid right there, the Tropicana, and a tiny bit of the facade of New York, New York, you truly can't get that anywhere else. And that's what I've loved about it. It's cheap, it's easy, no big frills, and it's our home base for now.

But I've got that feeling now that I know will be eliminated once we get nearer to the Strip after driving a while past Primm. It's funny, because if I know that the feeling will be gone, it shouldn't be there. I don't know. Maybe it's anxiety about boarding our dogs Tigger and Kitty while we're away for the weekend, even though it seems they'll be in good hands. Or maybe it's just an excuse.

I want things to change. I truly do. There is nothing left in the Santa Clarita Valley to benefit us, not that there has been in a long time. I don't feel any kinship with this valley. I don't like airheadedness, I don't like impoliteness, I don't like snobs who haven't earned the station they think they're at in life. It has all of that. I think it's partly the anxiety of having to move again. I want to. But I remember the work involved when we moved from South Florida to Southern California, throwing out what we didn't need, spending all night lugging garbage bag after garbage bag to the two communal Dumpsters in our neighborhood, packing, and those five days on the road, which were good five days to see what I never knew before, such as the two days it took to get through Texas. It's that upheaval, you know? I know it has to happen. Some can live with it, some are travel writers, some are wandering souls who find a home immediately in a new place and can find it again two, three weeks later somewhere else. But I'm not. It's been a nomadic existence for all these years. We moved many times in Florida and I'm glad that it was within the same state, but there were always those different feelings to be found in each place. Sure, it was good for my writing, but I've always wanted to put my roots down deep and not move ever again. I guess I'm just hoping for some kind of guarantee that this will truly be the last time we do this, because I feel at home in Las Vegas. I know this is my place. I love how people are constantly seeking things to enjoy. I love all the restaurant options, the old ladies forever at the slot machines, the architecture of the casinos that's so incongruous with the hot, flat, brownish desert landscape, but it still feels so right. On our second trip to Las Vegas, after crossing into Nevada, we saw a riverboat-shaped casino. On our third trip, the most recent one, it was gone. No more business to be had in that location, I'm sure, but that is amazing! A riverboat that simply disappeared from the desert. Yeah, yeah, I know the actual logic, what actually happened, but there is sheer poetry in it that I can't imagine anywhere else in the country.

That feeling, it's a little dread, some little questions. Will we make it this time? Will something happen for us that'll bring us closer to living there? We're leaving on Friday morning, likely arriving at about 3 p.m., depending on the traffic. On Saturday afternoon, my dad's taking a Nevada law exam that'll make his Nevada teaching license official. That's the centerpiece of the trip.

I want it more and more every time. I want to wake up and know that where I am is where I belong, that I don't have to fear moving again. I hope it comes soon. Maybe it's that uncertainty I feel, wondering when it's finally going to happen, disappointed that this trip won't be the time for it. Maybe longing for that time. But another funny thing is how Las Vegas is full of transience. People go there, but they don't stay long. Tourists all along the Strip. Yet, this is where I want my fixed point to be. I like a whirl of people around me. All the traits I can pick out if I decide to write a novel (not about Las Vegas, I'm sure), all the things there is to see. That's fine with me. But I hope it'll become more permanent soon.

(I know this entry is a tangle of words, a mess, jumping from one place to another and not grabbing onto a solid point. But I needed to do it like this, just this once. I'm nearly done writing my share of the book and it's at that point where the frustration is less, but the worry still remains in the editing. I needed to break loose, if only for a few minutes.)

The Weaker Half of the Serpent

The weaker half of the serpent is flailing about, trying to find the grasp it used to have on me, but it is now completely lost, only brushing against me every few seconds. I have only one more essay to write and then I delve into the rewrites, which are much easier because I get to play around with the sentences, use my trusted Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus when necessary, and finally have a little fun with this project. The fun actually begins with the final essay, about Paul Lynde. I interviewed Michael Airington on the phone, fully intending to use the essay to profile his one-man show and interject when necessary with further facts about Lynde, and that intention remains strong because Airington was a joy to talk to. I even told my parents to pick up the phone, and had Airington talk to them as Lynde. Mom said it was like Lynde came back. Out of the three books I bought for this project, "Center Square: The Paul Lynde Story" by Steve Wilson and Joe Florenski is the only one left, and the only one I'll be proud to skim through as I go through my notes while writing the essay, making sure dates and TV show titles are correct.

As it turns out, I managed to slice the serpent in half after I was done with my essay on Judy Garland, which was actually harder than the one on Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle. Arbuckle was a silent film comedian, well before the studio system began. Garland was pulled through that hurricane, and had the concert tours and the TV shows, and the personal problems, and all of it wore me out when I finally finished writing it at 4:30 yesterday morning. Come to think of it, the Marilyn Monroe essay was easier too. And now, after my family and I move to Las Vegas, I can hang up my two framed Chris Consani prints of Monroe, James Dean, Elvis Presley and Humphrey Bogart without any regrets.

I have my Heath Ledger essay open right now. Two days ago, I found that I hadn't written any speculation about what he might have done in his career had he not died. It was a little intimidating then, but now that I'm down to one more essay to write, this is starting to get easier. Naturally, I'll still be insecure about what I write, but I have my notes, I have the article from L.A. Weekly about Ledger joining the Masses artist group, so I should be good.

I need to get all this done before March 12th, when my family and I go to Las Vegas. I want this to be a real vacation, truly away from everything.

I Drove All Night to Arrive at a New Day

In April 2003, on an American Airlines 757 to Los Angeles from Fort Lauderdale, Florida, I watched "Brown Sugar," which had some actors worth watching, but it felt like it would never end. There was also the pilot episode of "Still Standing," starring Mark Addy and Jami Gertz. I think there was an episode of "Everybody Loves Raymond," too, but I mainly remember the silence throughout the aircraft, and toward the end of the flight, all the overheard monitors showing the music video for "I Drove All Night" by Celine Dion. It would just be something to remember occasionally during an idle evening, but never to dwell on. Earlier today, I dwelled.

Adding to a full Saturday (the library, to pick up a new tsunami of books waiting for me; eating at Wing Stop; some hours spent at Sam's Club, where I bought the paperback edition of the wonderful, wonderful The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, and immediately handed it to my aspiring-chef sister as required reading), our Sunday included seeing Celine: Through the Eyes of the World, an affecting, at-times powerful documentary about the delightfully divaless Celine Dion's world tour, begun after she finished her run at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. The film began with her singing "I Drove All Night," and I realized: This is a major sign.

My family's flight neared Los Angeles with that song playing. And now, here I was in a theater at Edwards Valencia 12, six and a half years later, six and a half years older, remembering the newspaper I worked at for two years, remembering how I was at first fascinated with the valley, and the two most interesting people I met at the start (one, a backpacker who had stayed in Las Vegas for a time beforehand; the other an aging cleaning woman who could tell where each plane in the sky was headed), remembering all the taxing times I've had here, and all those days where I just relaxed, ignored everything there could possibly be to worry about. Overall, I've tolerated this valley. I've simply lived here. No real emotion toward it, no zealous support toward anything within it. So when it comes time for my family and I to leave Southern California and move to Las Vegas, I won't have any regrets. I won't want to stay for any reason.

This may be the year that we will finally get there. It's appropriate that I should hear "I Drove All Night" here in Southern California. I've heard it once or twice again before this, but not to the extent that I was actively paying attention to it as I was in the movie theater, as I was on that flight. That, to me, shows that Dad may be called soon for something there. On March 12th, we have to be in Vegas so he can take a law exam related to him becoming fully certified to teach business education in Nevada, but I think it will become more than that in the coming months. Something good may finally break through. We've waited enough years already, but this feels like the year. Finality may finally come.

Tally-ho!

So far, on the book front, here's the score:

One essay, about Mexican actress Lupe Velez, is completely done. Maybe some very minor changes, such as rearranging movie titles so one paragraph doesn't look like such a know-it-all clump. Despite that, which isn't a big deal, I'm very happy with how it reads.

Two essays have not been written yet. For one, about John Cazale, I'm almost sure of how I want to begin it, I have all the information I can possibly get, and I got the speculation for it long ago from Richard Shepard, a filmmaker who made a documentary about his performances in movies such as The Godfather and Dog Day Afternoon. He's also directing the pilot of the Criminal Minds spinoff. For the other essay, I need to get on the phone with Michael Airington, who does a one-man show as Paul Lynde. That may be the most fun I will have in this project, as I intend to write that essay entirely as a profile of that show, inserting facts that may not be mentioned by him due to necessary comedic and dramatic momentum. I intend to get on that next week.

Three essays are partly done. I'm not finished writing about Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, Mabel Normand or Judy Garland. A few days ago, the Garland essay had been a big headache because of how big a career she had. Not that I'm disparaging it, but I worried about the page limits for each essay, as set out by my writing partner: 2-8 pages for biographical material, and 2-8 pages for speculation about what each actor's life and career might have been had they not died. However, early yesterday morning, my essay on Marilyn Monroe ended at 12 pages. 11 biographical, and 1 for speculation. I'm not so worried about it. I'll look it over again later. As it turns out, the Arbuckle essay is giving me the biggest headache because of the three trials Arbuckle went through under accusation of manslaughter. I want to point to the two biographies about Arbuckle that obviously provide the best information about the trials (one reprinted transcripts from the trials; the other took a more narrative tack), but I know I have to give something. The real interest is not so much in the case, which was a wash anyway and was cooked up even more by an overeager DA looking to become governor of California with this, but in the media reception and the outrage by women's groups, and the relentlessness of William Randolph Hearst, who let the story go on in his newspapers as long as it possibly could, killing Arbuckle's reputation in the process, even though after the third trial, he was deemed innocent, and the foreman of that jury read him a written apology, which is what the 11 minutes in deliberation had been used for.

Hey, that sounds like a good start. Easier to write it in this blog than in the essay so far.

For the essay on Mabel Normand, I only need timeline guidance, and I have it from a website I partly used for research. I'm still having trouble with an opening for it, but I do have the speculation from an expert on Normand, and it's wonderful stuff, thoughtfully considering whether Normand could have truly overcome her illness and what would have been ahead for her. As it turns out, not much, not with the film industry changing to sound production.

13 essays are nearly done. I want to reread all of them. For the essays on Brad Renfro and Chris Farley, I need to slightly rewrite the openings. Both began to sound similar, me delving into pieces of my childhood for when I first noticed both of them, and I worried about whether I'd have to dump both openings in favor of something entirely new for each. However, for the Renfro essay, I only have to pitch the last sentences in the last paragraph of the opening, and write a new sentence that'll make it different from the Farley opening. I still need to rewrite the Farley opening to make it more organized, but now I don't have to do as much work.

For the other 11 essays, I have to revise the speculation. I'm speculating on my own for five actors, including John Belushi, and my words have to read better. Plus, I haven't yet finished the speculation on Heath Ledger, Brad Renfro and Chris Farley, though for Renfro and Farley, and especially Belushi, I really have to think about whether they would have been able to kick their drug habits. Farley really wanted to try, in light of being told that he would not be insured for a Fatty Arbuckle biopic unless he was clean and sober for a year or so. But I wonder if he would have had the strength to not only overcome his addictions, but to also keep them away even after that film had been made. That one film would have changed his life and his career, guaranteed. I truly believe he would have been seen as a dramatic actor. There was a moment in Tommy Boy where Tommy Callahan (Farley) sits forlorn and alone on a loading dock at his deceased father's auto parts factory. Right there, I was sure that he would eventually have his The Truman Show with that Fatty Arbuckle biopic. Unlike John Belushi, who bet his entire image on that fast-burning, funny madman, Farley took in moments of reflection. Continental Divide and Neighbors didn't work at all for Belushi because people were expecting Bluto Blutarsky in many other forms. Farley still had a shot to create a new shade of his image.

I don't think I will miss this project when I'm done. I've enjoyed parts of it, and other parts have been incredibly taxing and monotonous. I'm not ramping up my excitement over seeing my name on the cover of a book until these essays are completely done. I have to wait until likely before January 2011 anyway. But I know one important thing: No more writing for others. I don't want to be part of something, a cog in something. I don't mind that in my eventual commercial aviation career. I'll see lots of airliners, and I'm happy about that. But for writing, I want only my ideas, my concepts. I'll adjust them as necessary to make them better or when something inspires me (there's a lot that does), but I want me. Just me. This book was fine. An outstanding start, and an opportunity I'll probably never have again, where I didn't have to do the gruntwork of finding a publisher, writing a proposal, any of that. My writing partner came to me with the project and asked if I wanted to join him. That was it. That's why I took it. But now I want to find out what would make me excited to sit in front of a computer for even more hours, to flip through other books for research, to find characters and ideas that give me a purpose in words. It's finally time for that.

But first, this book. No rush. I need to make this one look good. Back to work.

The Battle Rages

While some might believe it's easy to simply sit in a chair, face the computer screen, and type an essay, a novel, a book of short stories or poetry, it's a hard, ongoing battle. I'm facing one, trying to prevent the serpent looming over me (a.k.a., a forthcoming deadline) from dragging me underwater and holding me there. I'll be back when I've sliced it in half and have only the weaker half to defeat.

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.)