For me, a perfect day at work is having a lot of time to walk the La Mesa campus, a lull in between calls, an opportunity to read while at lunch, and spending most of the time by myself, save for supervising the kids at brunch and lunch and making sure they get to class in between periods. I don't talk much with my fellow campus supervisors because there's not that much to say. I'm there to do a job well, to get paid, and go home. And I still love that once the day's work is done, it's done. There's no overtime, nothing to think about at home. I have the rest of the day and night for myself, to read and to write.
Yesterday was a perfect day because of all of that and more. I was subbing for Carmen, who had to take her daughter to a few appointments, since her husband had done it the past few times. I'll take any hours I can get, though Carmen's aren't my favorite because it's five hours and 30 minutes, and not a full six hours as I get with one of the two Alexes and Liz.
Nevertheless, it felt like a Friday, looking straight at the weekend, even though it was a Wednesday. It had that easygoing feeling that aligned the universe. Plus, Meridith was working too as a substitute in the kitchen. The last time she and I were at the same school was a year at Riverside Elementary in Coral Springs, Florida, when I was in fifth grade and she was in kindergarten.
Meridith and I graduated high school in 2007 (Valencia High) and 2002 (Hollywood High), respectively, and spent a few years each at College of the Canyons. We're at a campus again because we don't have to learn anything anymore. We have jobs that are a requirement on a middle-school level (and elementary and high school, though neither of us want to work at a high school): Kids have to eat and there needs to be supervision. In fact, once we get to Henderson, Meridith's thinking about working in the cafeteria of an elementary school, since she loves little kids. I want to stay on the middle school level because in high school, to drag out the moldy cliche (though it is true, I know), those students so obviously know everything. I like to be in that gray, in-between area, which middle school is. There's room for more ambiguity than there is in high school. Plus, it appeals to one of my major interests in my writing: Self-contained worlds. La Mesa is part of a school district, but it is by itself during school hours. No actions by any other middle school can affect it. Tom Flores, one of the assistant principals, splits his time between there and Sierra Vista, but the dynamics in each campus are most assuredly different.
Plus, with weekends off, holidays off, and teacher workdays off, no other job can possibly match that. And because Meridith and I have been at Silver Trail as students when Dad taught there, and just in general when he had to be there at night for various happenings such as open houses; and I have been at Flanagan High and Hollywood Hills High as a student when Mom worked at each campus, we know all about the inner workings of administrations, what helps the school run. From student to employee, it was an easy transition for us to make.
In the kitchen yesterday, there was also a birthday celebration for one of the women, so at one point in the day, Meridith was making banana splits for them. I had come in just when I had started my shift to say hello to Meridith, and then before lunch, I popped in again before the rush began and Meridith asked if I wanted a banana split. Mindful of the roasted corn and french fries to come at Six Flags Magic Mountain on Saturday (I may have one order of each or more than one. I'm not sure yet), I said no, but Meridith is deaf to the word "No" unless you keep remaining firm enough to show that you don't want whatever's being offered. So she said, "Ok, I'll make you one," and who am I to argue when a banana split is being offered on a Wednesday afternoon during work hours.
After lunch was over and I had swept my share of the campus free of lunch debris (La Mesa is the only campus in the district in which the campus supervisors also sweep up trash after brunch and lunch. If a custodial job involved only sweeping, I'd apply for it, but I don't want to do all else that's involved, such as shampooing carpets, staying late into the evening, and sometimes cleaning up puke. So a campus supervisor I'll happily be), I went into the kitchen, Meridith gave me my banana split, and when I took it from her, I was floored because that freezer in that kitchen works so much better than what we've got at home. I know it's an industrial freezer and it has to work properly for reasons of food safety, but even so, while I was taking my banana split to my favorite spot toward the back of the school to sit down and have it, there was no threat of it melting, even with the day having become warmer.
In this banana split were three long sections of banana, chocolate and vanilla ice cream, and walnuts. The walnuts were an unexpected surprise, since I don't see walnuts that often anyway because of how much they cost in the bulk aisles at Sprouts.
I sat down, tucked under the bowl the napkins Meridith gave me, and tucked in. Imagine that anywhere else: Eating a banana split on a Wednesday afternoon at work. The radio was quiet, no one to pick up to bring to the office, so I had plenty of time to eat the entire banana split. I know there probably won't be banana splits at whatever middle school in the Clark County School District will have me as a full-time campus supervisor, not very often anyway, but this is truly the job for me, for moments like this that are so incongruous to what we think of as work during the day. But you know, a job's a job because it brings in a paycheck. It pays the bills. At least for this weekend, part of it gets me a slightly overpriced Superman t-shirt at Six Flags (From the check I deposited yesterday that was from two days of work a few weeks ago).
Before the banana split, at about 11:30, I went to lunch. Carmen's hours, as well as Liz's, and one of the Alexes, puts lunch at 11:30-12:15, which gives a 19-minute leeway before lunch begins for the kids.
I keep my lunch in my dad's fridge in his classroom (in a small room off the classroom, where he also keeps boxes of crackers in a cabinet and assorted other snacks), and I wish I didn't have to. The temperature control in that fridge is so out of whack that spinach and shredded carrots I store in there in a plastic container are always frozen whenever I open it up in the teachers' lounge upstairs. I can eat a few leaves and a few carrots, but have to wait until nearly the end of lunch for the rest of it to defrost. Fortunately, I'm the sort who can go from dessert back to lunch, and since I always have a banana for dessert, it makes no difference. But it's still plenty annoying when there's 45 minutes for lunch that I don't want to rush through at any point.
Later in the day, the head of the kitchen said to Meridith that whenever I'm working, I can have whatever I want from the kitchen. I wondered if this meant I could put my lunch in one of those fridges so I don't have to chisel spinach leaves apart. Yet, I'm iffy about taking advantage of such an offer when Meridith's not working in the kitchen. I don't feel it polite to impose if I don't have a connection to the kitchen. I don't take advantage of that connection anyway, since I have my own lunch, but it just seems easier to go about it when Meridith's there.
Dad's classroom. Lunchtime. I walked in, going to the tote bag I kept under the table near Dad's desk, getting out the plastic shopping bags in which I brought my lunch, to bring to the fridge and load it up. Dad saw me, stopped me, and said he wanted to introduce me to a student, and was going to have me paged on the radio if I hadn't shown up.
The student he introduced me to wanted to write books and poetry, and he told me to talk to her and give her some advice. It was a brand-new situation for me. I've always been on my own with my writing. I've never imparted any experience of mine to anyone curious about what I do, because there's been no one curious about what I do. Yet, here was someone.
She told me that she wanted to write poems of sadness and despair. I don't know if any aspect of her life brought her to want to write those, nor was I going to ask. I figured that maybe she thought those were deep poems, and therefore more likely to be remembered. That didn't matter to me, because she asked, and that was most important to me.
I told her to read often and read a lot. Read enough poetry to get a feel for how others do it, how they form their thoughts into whatever style they choose. Type out favorite poems to get a deeper feeling for them. Always try.
She asked for poets that matched what she wanted to write. On the computer she was using, I steered her to Sylvia Plath. In Google, I typed "sadness and despair poems" and told her to read through those, and if she found a poet she liked, to read everything that poet wrote. It's most important that she follows what interests her. I emphasized over and over to her the importance of reading, that in order to write well, you have to read. You have to know what has come before and from there, you can figure out what you want to do, but also never to be intimidated by what came before that seems great, because you can still do it too.
She went back to Dad later in the day to say thank you, because I had changed her life. What she had learned from me was much, much more than any guidance department or set of English teachers so far had done for her. I hope in high school, she has an English teacher like Roberta Little, who I had in 11th grade, who introduced me to Tennessee Williams through The Glass Menagerie (My favorite play), who showed Mark Twain Tonight! starring Hal Holbrook in conjunction with a unit about The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and which I not only bought on DVD years later, but I saw Holbrook perform it live at the College of the Canyons Performing Arts Center. She sought our opinions about works, fostered great discussions, and never believed her own opinion to be greater than any of ours. In literature, we were all on an equal level, all exploring together.
By the way, she's 12. There's a potentially good future for this country.
I had done my mitzvah for the day. Totally unexpected, and it's best that the young ones learn what those of us in the trenches have done so far and apply it to how they want to do it.
None of the rest of my day compared to that, though it was just as peaceful as it had been from the start. At one point, Mr. Kerman, one of the guidance counselors called at five-minute intervals to bring three girls into the office of Mr. Patterson, one of the assistant principals. I answered all three calls, figuring something had transpired that took some time to sort out. Not my place to know and I didn't want to know. I'm there to help make the day run a little bit smoother for the administration and the running of the school, and that's enough for me.
Today, there's been a new development. There will be five days in the four-week pleasure cruise instead of four. Dad got a call today that an influential bigwig at K12, the online school he works for, is flying to Burbank for business and wants to meet him on Sunday. This means going to Burbank, where Dad will likely drop us off at IKEA, before meeting this guy at whatever restaurant he chooses. This is most important because it could bring us closer to becoming residents of Henderson, being that the job Dad's seeking at K12 is in Las Vegas.
For Mom, Meridith and I, this means Swedish meatballs at IKEA, plus there's a mall within walking distance where Mom's wanted to go to the Macy's, but there's never been enough time on past visits. There's also Barnes & Noble across the street from IKEA, but I don't feel an urge to buy any books since I've been ordering the ones I want online. Yet I say that without having been there yet, and with a burgeoning interest in Steampunk and a deepening interest in Superman. Plus, they've got a vast collection of magazines, and it was at that Barnes & Noble that I discovered The Normal School (http://www.thenormalschool.com/index.html), a literary magazine run from the Fresno campus of California State University. Just from the issue I found there (http://www.thenormalschool.com/images/TNS5_FrontCover.gif), I went to the website, found out where to send a check for a subscription, wrote one, and sent it off. And I will happily renew my subscription once the third issue in my four-issue subscription arrives. They publish twice a year in the spring and the fall, so I have time.
I've also been thinking about the $1-only used bookstore that we went to in downtown Burbank in January (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/01/lost-my-dream-girl-i-hope-theres.html), but considering how many books there already are in my room, that may not be wise. And yet, there may be an author there I've never discovered before who I just have to read. And yet, I already have many of those in my room. And yet, maybe there's one or a few there who could inspire me further as I work on my second book. And yet, maybe it's best to shrink some of the stacks first before I go nuts again for more. And yet, isn't that what being a bibliophile is about? For the sake of space, no. For the love of reading, yes.
Besides, Dad's meeting is happening later in the day, so by the time he's done, we'll have to get home anyway because Dad has to go to work on Monday. It's no great loss to me if we don't, but there's always something about those used bookstores, going in, not knowing what you're looking for, but always finding it.
I've also found immense pleasure in The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue by Barbara Samuel, who writes as Barbara O'Neal now, and whose The Secret of Everything makes me want to visit New Mexico one day. I'm impatiently waiting for her The Garden of Happy Endings, which is coming out in April, so I ordered this, Lady Luck's Map of Vegas (which arrived today), and A Piece of Heaven, to pass some of the time until April when I can finally dive into that one. I haven't yet ordered No Place Like Home and Madame Mirabou's School of Love because I wanted to see how these first three go, but just on page 146 of The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue, I'm seriously thinking about bringing those two in. I can't go wrong with any of her works. Plus, I intend to re-read The Secret of Everything before April.
The pleasure cruise continues.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
From Viper to Ninja
I don't remember ever paying regular admission to Six Flags Magic Mountain. The first time we ever went had to have been during Toys for Tots' annual toy drive, where giving a toy valued at $10 or more gets you free admission for that day. This year, it's $20 or more, and it's fitting that it should go up that high since this will be our last visit, because it may go higher next year, as it's steadily risen every year or so. There's a blog called The Coaster Guy (http://www.thecoasterguy.com/), devoted to Magic Mountain, and this guy said that the crowds were light last Sunday. We're going on Saturday, but I'm still holding out hope that it's not crowded then either, not only because the weather's likely to remain cold, but also because $20 or more is a fairly steep price if you're bringing along, say, five or more people. We're four, so that's $80+ of toys, and I handled that last weekend at Big Lots.
The first time we went to Magic Mountain, probably in 2004 or 2005, I became hooked on Viper. Its vertical loops make the ride seem so slow, and it made going upside down easier to do. Plus, there's a double-corkscrew toward the end, which was a lot of fun.
I went there, many times, did that, got the t-shirt, literally. I still have it in my closet. I was a different person back then, though. I wanted to get things done in this valley. What they were at that time, I wasn't sure yet, but once The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of this valley, presented the opportunity of an internship, I knew that I wanted to get somewhere in journalism, but not the standard way. I wanted to be a full-time film critic somewhere. This was a few years before the industry's collapse, so there was still hope. Viper was perfect for me because it didn't muck about. It was sure of what it was and it would lead you through a straightforward experience. What you see is what you get. Plus, on the way up, there's a slight view of some of the park.
Six years later, Viper is no longer my favorite rollercoaster. This may have coincided with ending my time at The Signal, writing my first book, and trying to figure out just what I wanted to do with my life, which now I know is being a full-time campus supervisor once we move to Henderson, and reading and writing more books. Back then, between The Signal and What If They Lived?, ambiguity was necessary. What kind of life did I want? What would make me happy? Also, as the years wore on when I was a member of the Online Film Critics Society, I felt more and more like I was running on a hamster wheel, since every year, there were the movies in January that studios had no faith in, there was the summer movie season, and there was the awards season in the final three months of the year. For us, that meant screeners from various studios, and voting on our own awards. There was a ballot e-mailed to determine what we wanted to see nominated, and then the totals from that determined what was nominated. Then a second ballot came to vote on the winners.
I grew to loathe the clockwork nature of it. It was a novelty when I was a new member, but it soon became a slog. I let my membership lapse because of the book and because I still wanted to enjoy movies. I would never be a full-time film critic, and I was ok with that.
Viper must not have fulfilled the need I suddenly had for ambiguity, for a bit of mystery, for more imagination. On one visit to Magic Mountain, I walked up the steep, winding path to Samurai Summit (It now boasts Superman: Escape from Krypton, which used to be Superman: The Escape before the remodel, and now has the storyline I thought of when I went on it in its original form, that of the infant Kal-El escaping from an exploding Krypton, and reaching Earth), and there was Ninja.
Whatever compelled me to try Ninja has long been forgotten, but it happened in the last three years, and I've been hooked on it ever since. It's a suspended swinging roller coaster, meaning the ride vehicles are hung below the track.
The track of Ninja is buried amidst trees. From the vantage point of the nearby Sky Tower (near Ninja's entrance and loading station), you still can't see the track all that well. And on it, it feels like you're zooming through a forest, especially on the immensely pleasureable sharp turns which hit at least 2 Gs. And then there's the piece at the end when it seems like you just barely graze the water at the side of the Jetstream ride before going up that hill to the loading station. That end would seem anticlimactic to some, but not to me, because there's tall trees on one side as you go up the hill and it all lends itself to extreme bouts of imagination.
The Coaster Guy's profile of Ninja (http://www.thecoasterguy.com/index.php/2011/10/09/ride-profile-ninja/) does a far better job of showing it off than I can, and with photos. I don't imagine pixies or anything like that as I rush past the trees, but it is a different, most welcome world. It doesn't reveal itself so readily. You have to go to it to know it, unlike Tatsu, in which you can see the riders hanging stomach-side down as the ride vehicle goes up that lift hill. I will never go on that one, but knowing where the area is that you can watch the vehicles pull out of the loading station, I intend to stand there on Saturday and shout at the riders, "Can I have all your stuff?!"
I have been on Ninja four and five times at a shot and it never gets old for me. There is always something in the landscape to consider, and always that nearly orgasmic pleasure of those two sharp turns. Considering that Gotham City Backlot recently re-opened as D.C. Universe and now boasts a Green Lantern rollercoaster, and remembering the continued popularity of Tatsu, I'm hoping that these elements let me get on Ninja as many times as I want without it ever getting too crowded. Plus, with the cold weather remaining, it increases the chances of that exponentially.
Addendum at 3:41 p.m.: The work day is done, and Meridith told me that the only time we paid admission to Six Flags Magic Mountain was when we visited Los Angeles and surrounding areas for 10 days in April 2003, even driving to San Diego for one job interview, the only time I remember it not taking so long to get to San Diego, unlike the time we drove to Legoland for the day in September of last year.
So then I got hooked on Viper on that visit, not in 2004 or 2005, and even got the t-shirt right then and there.
The first time we went to Magic Mountain, probably in 2004 or 2005, I became hooked on Viper. Its vertical loops make the ride seem so slow, and it made going upside down easier to do. Plus, there's a double-corkscrew toward the end, which was a lot of fun.
I went there, many times, did that, got the t-shirt, literally. I still have it in my closet. I was a different person back then, though. I wanted to get things done in this valley. What they were at that time, I wasn't sure yet, but once The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of this valley, presented the opportunity of an internship, I knew that I wanted to get somewhere in journalism, but not the standard way. I wanted to be a full-time film critic somewhere. This was a few years before the industry's collapse, so there was still hope. Viper was perfect for me because it didn't muck about. It was sure of what it was and it would lead you through a straightforward experience. What you see is what you get. Plus, on the way up, there's a slight view of some of the park.
Six years later, Viper is no longer my favorite rollercoaster. This may have coincided with ending my time at The Signal, writing my first book, and trying to figure out just what I wanted to do with my life, which now I know is being a full-time campus supervisor once we move to Henderson, and reading and writing more books. Back then, between The Signal and What If They Lived?, ambiguity was necessary. What kind of life did I want? What would make me happy? Also, as the years wore on when I was a member of the Online Film Critics Society, I felt more and more like I was running on a hamster wheel, since every year, there were the movies in January that studios had no faith in, there was the summer movie season, and there was the awards season in the final three months of the year. For us, that meant screeners from various studios, and voting on our own awards. There was a ballot e-mailed to determine what we wanted to see nominated, and then the totals from that determined what was nominated. Then a second ballot came to vote on the winners.
I grew to loathe the clockwork nature of it. It was a novelty when I was a new member, but it soon became a slog. I let my membership lapse because of the book and because I still wanted to enjoy movies. I would never be a full-time film critic, and I was ok with that.
Viper must not have fulfilled the need I suddenly had for ambiguity, for a bit of mystery, for more imagination. On one visit to Magic Mountain, I walked up the steep, winding path to Samurai Summit (It now boasts Superman: Escape from Krypton, which used to be Superman: The Escape before the remodel, and now has the storyline I thought of when I went on it in its original form, that of the infant Kal-El escaping from an exploding Krypton, and reaching Earth), and there was Ninja.
Whatever compelled me to try Ninja has long been forgotten, but it happened in the last three years, and I've been hooked on it ever since. It's a suspended swinging roller coaster, meaning the ride vehicles are hung below the track.
The track of Ninja is buried amidst trees. From the vantage point of the nearby Sky Tower (near Ninja's entrance and loading station), you still can't see the track all that well. And on it, it feels like you're zooming through a forest, especially on the immensely pleasureable sharp turns which hit at least 2 Gs. And then there's the piece at the end when it seems like you just barely graze the water at the side of the Jetstream ride before going up that hill to the loading station. That end would seem anticlimactic to some, but not to me, because there's tall trees on one side as you go up the hill and it all lends itself to extreme bouts of imagination.
The Coaster Guy's profile of Ninja (http://www.thecoasterguy.com/index.php/2011/10/09/ride-profile-ninja/) does a far better job of showing it off than I can, and with photos. I don't imagine pixies or anything like that as I rush past the trees, but it is a different, most welcome world. It doesn't reveal itself so readily. You have to go to it to know it, unlike Tatsu, in which you can see the riders hanging stomach-side down as the ride vehicle goes up that lift hill. I will never go on that one, but knowing where the area is that you can watch the vehicles pull out of the loading station, I intend to stand there on Saturday and shout at the riders, "Can I have all your stuff?!"
I have been on Ninja four and five times at a shot and it never gets old for me. There is always something in the landscape to consider, and always that nearly orgasmic pleasure of those two sharp turns. Considering that Gotham City Backlot recently re-opened as D.C. Universe and now boasts a Green Lantern rollercoaster, and remembering the continued popularity of Tatsu, I'm hoping that these elements let me get on Ninja as many times as I want without it ever getting too crowded. Plus, with the cold weather remaining, it increases the chances of that exponentially.
Addendum at 3:41 p.m.: The work day is done, and Meridith told me that the only time we paid admission to Six Flags Magic Mountain was when we visited Los Angeles and surrounding areas for 10 days in April 2003, even driving to San Diego for one job interview, the only time I remember it not taking so long to get to San Diego, unlike the time we drove to Legoland for the day in September of last year.
So then I got hooked on Viper on that visit, not in 2004 or 2005, and even got the t-shirt right then and there.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
That's How You Know It's Time to Go
In nearly all the eight years I've lived in the Santa Clarita Valley, I hated the Santa Ana winds. A generally destructive force of nature that could topple trees, twist poles, and cause sparks that could set things aflame was, to me, worse than the thunderstorms in South Florida, the afternoons of rain that were merely inconvenient at times rather than downright scary like the Santa Anas were.
I wondered how people could live with this. In our first year here, in the apartment in Valencia, there were bad wildfires that produced a darkened, sooty sky. At College of the Canyons, I remember standing on the second floor, looking out at a hill that had flames creeping up, the tendril of one shooting up and then retreating quickly, only to repeat many times over in one minute alone.
Whenever it was announced on the news that Santa Ana winds were coming, I went to noaa.org to see what their speed would be, and would always get that reliable feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. What would happen? Would this round of winds cause flames to engulf the valley, pushing the Apocalypse closer to us yet again? It always felt like that.
In October 2007, we were evacuated from our place in Saugus for a day, though at that moment, we weren't sure if it was going to be only a day or longer. I remember Dad putting important papers in the trunk, getting our dogs and birds together, and leaving quickly.
One of dad's co-workers let us stay at their house for the time being, and in fact, they had been evacuated the day before when flames had come rushing down the hill toward their house and had been stopped right up to where their patio began. The black scars on the hillside were still fresh, though thankfully without smoke emanating from them.
It was a tense day, and I couldn't understand how people could live in landscapes that foisted this upon them. I knew there were other areas that faced wildfires every year and those residents were evacuated every year and still they came back. Same with flooding. Those people returned as well. Why would they want to go through that every single time?
I realized that it's because they loved where they lived. I couldn't feel the same for where I lived. I never felt the connection that those people felt for their areas. I always questioned everything around me instead of simply enjoying where I was, because there wasn't, and still isn't, anything to enjoy.
Over the past week, the Santa Ana winds came back, much colder since it's December, which is also a relief because hot Santa Ana winds are the worst, making brush much more flammable. The "meteorolgists" on TV said that there was a red flag warning, that there was fire danger, but there couldn't be. People were indoors. The crazy ones that were likely to set fires wouldn't because what good is any of that when it's freezing?
On Monday, I began sweeping up from the patio the alive and dead pine needles that had fallen from the tree that hangs high directly over our patio, as well as the leaves that had been blown into our patio from nearby trees. It was a lot to sweep, and as I did, the Santa Ana winds kept blowing, but I ignored it. I'm not afraid of them anymore. It's part of what Southern California is, it's just the routine of autumn, and there's nothing that can be done to prevent it.
I knew then, looking up at the trees that were at times becoming flattops, that it's time for my family and I to leave Southern California soon. There is no way we can stand another year here. It's time to move on with life, to be where we truly want to be, where we can be happy every day in exploring all that's around us. I miss having a city to poke and prod, to uncover every inch and see what I like about it and what I know I want all the time. I'll get that briefly with that final visit to Six Flags Magic Mountain on Saturday, but that's not enough. I want that feeling to grow ever larger with every place I go to. Not being afraid of the Santa Ana winds anymore means that there is nothing else here that I want to poke and prod. Once we reach Henderson, and have Las Vegas nearby, I want to learn about all that's available to me, yet have everything remain fresh all the time and always worth exploring.
And the Las Vegas valley does have sandstorms, but compared to what I've had here for eight years, I can live with it. I've lived through hurricanes, after all, thankfully not knowing the full brunt of Andrew in 1992, but dealing with vicious rain bands, so sandstorms are just a small price to pay for living where I want to live.
I wondered how people could live with this. In our first year here, in the apartment in Valencia, there were bad wildfires that produced a darkened, sooty sky. At College of the Canyons, I remember standing on the second floor, looking out at a hill that had flames creeping up, the tendril of one shooting up and then retreating quickly, only to repeat many times over in one minute alone.
Whenever it was announced on the news that Santa Ana winds were coming, I went to noaa.org to see what their speed would be, and would always get that reliable feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. What would happen? Would this round of winds cause flames to engulf the valley, pushing the Apocalypse closer to us yet again? It always felt like that.
In October 2007, we were evacuated from our place in Saugus for a day, though at that moment, we weren't sure if it was going to be only a day or longer. I remember Dad putting important papers in the trunk, getting our dogs and birds together, and leaving quickly.
One of dad's co-workers let us stay at their house for the time being, and in fact, they had been evacuated the day before when flames had come rushing down the hill toward their house and had been stopped right up to where their patio began. The black scars on the hillside were still fresh, though thankfully without smoke emanating from them.
It was a tense day, and I couldn't understand how people could live in landscapes that foisted this upon them. I knew there were other areas that faced wildfires every year and those residents were evacuated every year and still they came back. Same with flooding. Those people returned as well. Why would they want to go through that every single time?
I realized that it's because they loved where they lived. I couldn't feel the same for where I lived. I never felt the connection that those people felt for their areas. I always questioned everything around me instead of simply enjoying where I was, because there wasn't, and still isn't, anything to enjoy.
Over the past week, the Santa Ana winds came back, much colder since it's December, which is also a relief because hot Santa Ana winds are the worst, making brush much more flammable. The "meteorolgists" on TV said that there was a red flag warning, that there was fire danger, but there couldn't be. People were indoors. The crazy ones that were likely to set fires wouldn't because what good is any of that when it's freezing?
On Monday, I began sweeping up from the patio the alive and dead pine needles that had fallen from the tree that hangs high directly over our patio, as well as the leaves that had been blown into our patio from nearby trees. It was a lot to sweep, and as I did, the Santa Ana winds kept blowing, but I ignored it. I'm not afraid of them anymore. It's part of what Southern California is, it's just the routine of autumn, and there's nothing that can be done to prevent it.
I knew then, looking up at the trees that were at times becoming flattops, that it's time for my family and I to leave Southern California soon. There is no way we can stand another year here. It's time to move on with life, to be where we truly want to be, where we can be happy every day in exploring all that's around us. I miss having a city to poke and prod, to uncover every inch and see what I like about it and what I know I want all the time. I'll get that briefly with that final visit to Six Flags Magic Mountain on Saturday, but that's not enough. I want that feeling to grow ever larger with every place I go to. Not being afraid of the Santa Ana winds anymore means that there is nothing else here that I want to poke and prod. Once we reach Henderson, and have Las Vegas nearby, I want to learn about all that's available to me, yet have everything remain fresh all the time and always worth exploring.
And the Las Vegas valley does have sandstorms, but compared to what I've had here for eight years, I can live with it. I've lived through hurricanes, after all, thankfully not knowing the full brunt of Andrew in 1992, but dealing with vicious rain bands, so sandstorms are just a small price to pay for living where I want to live.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Day 1 and a 1/2 of a Four-Week Pleasure Cruise
It's so convenient when a week simply clicks into place, as it did today.
Mom woke me up late this morning to say that the head campus supervisor at La Mesa was on the phone, asking if I'd be available to sub on Wednesday. I am, and it works out well, because on Saturday, I have to be up way earlier than usual. Six Flags Magic Mountain is open from 10:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. and I don't want to miss a minute that gives me a lot of time on Ninja. Plus, I want to see what Superman merchandise there is, especially t-shirts, and maybe a better Ninja t-shirt than the one I have, which isn't even a design of the ride itself, but of a section of the park. It has facts about Ninja, such as the length of the track and the top speed, but that's not enough for me. This will be my final visit to Magic Mountain and I want a souvenir that matches the day.
The job on Wednesday means that I have to go to bed much earlier, probably a little after midnight, since Dad leaves the house at 7 a.m., because installation of solar panels around the school and repaving of the parking lot has left the parking situation a mess. The logical thing to do would have been to get all this done during winter break. This is what Dad has to contend with every day now, so he wants to get a decent parking space that avoids the hassle of driving out of the campus at the end of the day.
Because I haven't been a substitute campus supervisor for a few weeks, I'll be worn out when I get home, which means I'll crash early, towards midnight most likely. That brings me to 8 a.m. or so on Thursday morning, and if I keep to that schedule for Friday and Saturday morning, we can get to Six Flags before the gates open, which is what we've done anyway for the few years we've participated in this toy drive. Mom's still thinking about whether she wants to go, since it is a lot of walking in one day, but she probably will, since there's roasted corn that's the best we've ever had. With the redesign of the former Gotham City Backlot into D.C. Universe, the roasted corn stand is now called Kent Farms (after Superman), and Meridith's hoping that there's more seasonings available. I'm content with the lemon-pepper seasoning they had last time. She's hoping for parmesan or another cheese-like seasoning, because she'll just dump the entire container onto her roasted corn and then tell the person behind the counter that they're out of seasoning. Incorrigible cheese fanatic which is always entertaining.
I won't miss Magic Mountain after we move, but I do appreciate the relief it has brought from existing in this valley. It's the one place that's markedly different from anything else here, and though that's obvious by the rollercoasters alone, there's a different feeling to it, that of pure pleasure, as opposed to supposed-pleasure-while-gritting-your-teeth when there's crowds at the mall. Lines aren't as frustrating there. At times, it was what I knew when my family and I had annual passes to Walt Disney World. You could wander in that universe for hours, and you couldn't find the same thing anywhere else. It's that way with Magic Mountain too. You go there, and unless you're riding Goliath, which goes high enough to see beyond the park, you don't know that there's an entire working valley in front of the park. You're in a wonderfully enclosed world, able to imagine whatever you want from what's given, from the rollercoasters to Looney Tunes World to the back end of the park that includes Apocalypse: The Ride. All yours to do whatever you want.
Mom woke me up late this morning to say that the head campus supervisor at La Mesa was on the phone, asking if I'd be available to sub on Wednesday. I am, and it works out well, because on Saturday, I have to be up way earlier than usual. Six Flags Magic Mountain is open from 10:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. and I don't want to miss a minute that gives me a lot of time on Ninja. Plus, I want to see what Superman merchandise there is, especially t-shirts, and maybe a better Ninja t-shirt than the one I have, which isn't even a design of the ride itself, but of a section of the park. It has facts about Ninja, such as the length of the track and the top speed, but that's not enough for me. This will be my final visit to Magic Mountain and I want a souvenir that matches the day.
The job on Wednesday means that I have to go to bed much earlier, probably a little after midnight, since Dad leaves the house at 7 a.m., because installation of solar panels around the school and repaving of the parking lot has left the parking situation a mess. The logical thing to do would have been to get all this done during winter break. This is what Dad has to contend with every day now, so he wants to get a decent parking space that avoids the hassle of driving out of the campus at the end of the day.
Because I haven't been a substitute campus supervisor for a few weeks, I'll be worn out when I get home, which means I'll crash early, towards midnight most likely. That brings me to 8 a.m. or so on Thursday morning, and if I keep to that schedule for Friday and Saturday morning, we can get to Six Flags before the gates open, which is what we've done anyway for the few years we've participated in this toy drive. Mom's still thinking about whether she wants to go, since it is a lot of walking in one day, but she probably will, since there's roasted corn that's the best we've ever had. With the redesign of the former Gotham City Backlot into D.C. Universe, the roasted corn stand is now called Kent Farms (after Superman), and Meridith's hoping that there's more seasonings available. I'm content with the lemon-pepper seasoning they had last time. She's hoping for parmesan or another cheese-like seasoning, because she'll just dump the entire container onto her roasted corn and then tell the person behind the counter that they're out of seasoning. Incorrigible cheese fanatic which is always entertaining.
I won't miss Magic Mountain after we move, but I do appreciate the relief it has brought from existing in this valley. It's the one place that's markedly different from anything else here, and though that's obvious by the rollercoasters alone, there's a different feeling to it, that of pure pleasure, as opposed to supposed-pleasure-while-gritting-your-teeth when there's crowds at the mall. Lines aren't as frustrating there. At times, it was what I knew when my family and I had annual passes to Walt Disney World. You could wander in that universe for hours, and you couldn't find the same thing anywhere else. It's that way with Magic Mountain too. You go there, and unless you're riding Goliath, which goes high enough to see beyond the park, you don't know that there's an entire working valley in front of the park. You're in a wonderfully enclosed world, able to imagine whatever you want from what's given, from the rollercoasters to Looney Tunes World to the back end of the park that includes Apocalypse: The Ride. All yours to do whatever you want.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Private Spaces in Public Places
For the past two days, I've been reading State of the Arts: California Artists Talk About Their Work by Barbara Isenberg, who interviewed such figures as Joan Didion, Clint Eastwood, Peter Sellars (opera director and one of my heroes), David Hockney, Matt Groening, Norman Lear, and others about what California means to them as artists, and formed those interviews into essays.
In his chapter, David Hockney makes an interesting point: "I've always understood that in California the private spaces are better than the public spaces."
Hockney has it right, though it depends on the private space, because some public spaces can seem private. Parks and movie theaters aren't private at all, but last night waiting for Dad and Meridith at Big Lots comes to mind. People were walking in and out of the store, and I didn't feel like I was in public. I was listening to the music coming out of the speakers in the ceiling overhead, watching the traffic across the street, looking at the hillside with house lights on it and cars driving down those roads. I was on my own in my head, noticing no one.
Then there was that day back in June when Meridith and I were home while Mom and Dad were in Las Vegas, and we went to Valencia Ice Station to watch the ice skaters and the hockey players, and to play a few games in the arcade: Galaga for me, air hockey for me and Meridith (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/06/run-of-house-day-5.html). Meridith and I were the only two in that arcade, but while playing Galaga, that was my private space. I was completely focused on the game.
I think I'm moving far away from what Hockney meant, but certainly these instances are spaces in California. Another private space would be Hearst Castle, which has public tours, and is only accessible by small bus up a mountain. At night, with no one there, that's as private as it gets.
And on that same trip back in January 2006, Dad and I stayed at La Quinta Inn in Sacramento. On a third floor balcony, outside those sets of rooms, I looked out at downtown Sacramento and felt total silence. Sacramento is the kind of city that is busy during the day, but once the evening hits, there is nothing that requires any more attention. Whatever needs to be done can be done the next day. It feels like Sacramento relaxes and is more loose about things, though not that loose, since it is the seat of the state government after all.
In a way, despite the operation involved in running Ninja at Six Flags Magic Mountain, I could consider those moments inside my car while riding in it my private space. I don't scream like others do; I sit and think. It's a meditation space for me, crazy as it seems, though with those sharp, immensely pleasureable turns, it's easy to understand.
For completely private spaces, I get what Hockney is saying, especially in thinking back to the apartment in Valencia, when I'd read in my room on Saturday afternoons, sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds behind me as I sat on my bed, discovering the works of Charles Bukowski, and finding kind of a kindred soul in him with that raw, very funny honesty.
The private spaces are better because you can fit them to whatever you want, and make your own California out of them. That's the only way I've survived these eight years since I never much liked the public spaces of Southern California. And what I did like, such as the Valencia library, was only a means to something. It was never just being there for the place itself.
There was one instance in which I was there for the place itself. When I was a nocturnal creature to the extent of going to bed at 5 a.m. and waking up at 2 p.m. years ago, I'd walk our patio, looking out at the ripples in the community pool right behind our wall (One of the major selling points when it comes time to finally sell this place) and the darkened mountain with a few lights on, street lights, but everyone asleep or at least in bed gripping the sheets in terror at the swiftness of life and why the hell haven't they done half of what they had planned to do in their lives?
That's what I figure, anyway. I loved the silence in those hours, much as I do at 12:01 a.m. right now (I started this entry a few hours ago, before Sunday changed to Monday, but it wasn't because of writer's block that I haven't finished it yet. I've been searching for books and ordering a few at the same time. As usual). It's interesting outside because this valley settles down faster than parts of Los Angeles. It is so quiet that the whistle of a train reverberates loudly throughout the valley, which is essentially dead by 10 p.m. anyway.
My private space is right here, sitting in front of this computer while the rest of the household is asleep. The location isn't ideal, and it's pretty obvious where I'd rather be, but it's fine for now because there's only me and State of the Arts in front of me, and whatever else comes to this night before I decide that it's finally time to nod off a little before or a little after 2. It's a solid private space.
In his chapter, David Hockney makes an interesting point: "I've always understood that in California the private spaces are better than the public spaces."
Hockney has it right, though it depends on the private space, because some public spaces can seem private. Parks and movie theaters aren't private at all, but last night waiting for Dad and Meridith at Big Lots comes to mind. People were walking in and out of the store, and I didn't feel like I was in public. I was listening to the music coming out of the speakers in the ceiling overhead, watching the traffic across the street, looking at the hillside with house lights on it and cars driving down those roads. I was on my own in my head, noticing no one.
Then there was that day back in June when Meridith and I were home while Mom and Dad were in Las Vegas, and we went to Valencia Ice Station to watch the ice skaters and the hockey players, and to play a few games in the arcade: Galaga for me, air hockey for me and Meridith (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/06/run-of-house-day-5.html). Meridith and I were the only two in that arcade, but while playing Galaga, that was my private space. I was completely focused on the game.
I think I'm moving far away from what Hockney meant, but certainly these instances are spaces in California. Another private space would be Hearst Castle, which has public tours, and is only accessible by small bus up a mountain. At night, with no one there, that's as private as it gets.
And on that same trip back in January 2006, Dad and I stayed at La Quinta Inn in Sacramento. On a third floor balcony, outside those sets of rooms, I looked out at downtown Sacramento and felt total silence. Sacramento is the kind of city that is busy during the day, but once the evening hits, there is nothing that requires any more attention. Whatever needs to be done can be done the next day. It feels like Sacramento relaxes and is more loose about things, though not that loose, since it is the seat of the state government after all.
In a way, despite the operation involved in running Ninja at Six Flags Magic Mountain, I could consider those moments inside my car while riding in it my private space. I don't scream like others do; I sit and think. It's a meditation space for me, crazy as it seems, though with those sharp, immensely pleasureable turns, it's easy to understand.
For completely private spaces, I get what Hockney is saying, especially in thinking back to the apartment in Valencia, when I'd read in my room on Saturday afternoons, sunlight filtering through the dusty blinds behind me as I sat on my bed, discovering the works of Charles Bukowski, and finding kind of a kindred soul in him with that raw, very funny honesty.
The private spaces are better because you can fit them to whatever you want, and make your own California out of them. That's the only way I've survived these eight years since I never much liked the public spaces of Southern California. And what I did like, such as the Valencia library, was only a means to something. It was never just being there for the place itself.
There was one instance in which I was there for the place itself. When I was a nocturnal creature to the extent of going to bed at 5 a.m. and waking up at 2 p.m. years ago, I'd walk our patio, looking out at the ripples in the community pool right behind our wall (One of the major selling points when it comes time to finally sell this place) and the darkened mountain with a few lights on, street lights, but everyone asleep or at least in bed gripping the sheets in terror at the swiftness of life and why the hell haven't they done half of what they had planned to do in their lives?
That's what I figure, anyway. I loved the silence in those hours, much as I do at 12:01 a.m. right now (I started this entry a few hours ago, before Sunday changed to Monday, but it wasn't because of writer's block that I haven't finished it yet. I've been searching for books and ordering a few at the same time. As usual). It's interesting outside because this valley settles down faster than parts of Los Angeles. It is so quiet that the whistle of a train reverberates loudly throughout the valley, which is essentially dead by 10 p.m. anyway.
My private space is right here, sitting in front of this computer while the rest of the household is asleep. The location isn't ideal, and it's pretty obvious where I'd rather be, but it's fine for now because there's only me and State of the Arts in front of me, and whatever else comes to this night before I decide that it's finally time to nod off a little before or a little after 2. It's a solid private space.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Day 1 of a Four-Week Pleasure Cruise
It's not four weeks straight, just one day for each of the four weeks, though it is a pleasure and it feels like a smooth cruise.
Today was the first day, with a visit to Big Lots because Toys for Tots, in partnership with Six Flags Magic Mountain, is having its annual toy drive, which means this year that if you bring a toy worth $20 and over, you receive free admission to the park for that day. The toy drive is already in progress, having begun today and continuing tomorrow. We're going next Saturday, and the final day is that following Sunday.
I was at Big Lots back in September (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/09/050-bargains.html) and was excited this time for the same reason: Books and DVDs. The rare times that we go there, I make sure my checking account has enough to be drained away. I don't ransack the store--I'm very choosy--but I always make sure I have enough for what I want. And for the toys, since I was paying for them this time.
Dad dropped Meridith and I off curbside at the entrance, to let us get started right away (since the dogs had to be picked up from grooming about an hour later), and after finding that there were no restrooms available in Big Lots, I reasoned that books and DVDs were more important than peeing, even though I was not comfortable, and made a beeline for the DVDs.
I go through every single DVD. I want to know everything that's there, and to make sure I don't miss anything. My objective this time was to find The Hunt for Red October so I didn't have to pay an Amazon shipping charge for it. At the bottom of the first set of shelves, I hit a jackpot I didn't even know I was looking for: Buster, starring Phil Collins, for $1.88. I had seen it twice, because of Phil Collins, and had idly entertained the thought of buying it for my DVD collection, but with the stacks of DVD cases in my room, how could I? I'd drown in DVDs.
But now with a DVD binder on the horizon (I'm looking at one that holds 320 DVDs), I decided that I should get those DVDs I want as part of my collection, and Buster apparently was one of those. On the same shelf was Ang Lee's The Wedding Banquet, which I had never seen, but want to, and for $1.88, why not?
Then came Revolutionary Road for $5, which I adore for the cinematography, especially when Frank (Leonardo DiCaprio) and April (Kate Winslet) are in the hallway of that empty high school after that disastrous community theater performance. I live for moments like that, because I've lived them. I loved being at College of the Canyons on a late Friday afternoon toward 4, after one of my cinema classes ended (I took those for fun, since they were easy A's for me), and there was no one else on the campus. If there was anyone else around, they may have still been in the library or their offices or still their classrooms. It felt like everything in the universe was aligned and there was total peace. I also like Revolutionary Road for the performances, and Sam Mendes is one of my favorite directors, which makes me even more psyched for Skyfall, the next Bond movie.
I spotted Collateral for $5, and remembered admiring it for the cinematography, for getting nighttime Los Angeles so right, but did I really need it again? Some time next year, I'll be a resident of Henderson, Nevada. Why would I want to dwell on what I've been looking forward to leaving behind? King of California, This Book Will Save Your Life by A.M. Homes, and Chore Whore by Heather H. Howard (Souvenirs from Santa Clarita, Los Angeles, and Hollywood, respectively) are exceptions because the memories are minor and mild, and I was never a celebrity personal assistant like Howard was. Her novel is one of the few to get the feeling of Hollywood right, what I remember as an outsider, and I'm fascinated by what she experienced on the inside.
So no. No Collateral. And then I found it: The Hunt for Red October! It came with a problem, though. It was part of a double feature pack with K19: The Widowmaker. I didn't want K19, but I definitely wanted The Hunt for Red October. It was $6, which I would be paying on Amazon anyway, and that would come out to a little over $8 with shipping and handling. I didn't know if this was a double-sided disc or if there were two separate discs in the pack. I shook it slightly and it felt a little weighty, but after I got screwed with the ridiculous packaging of the complete series set of Married with Children, I wasn't sure if I wanted this. And yet, once the binder comes, the packaging won't matter anyway since it'll be in the trash.
Poring over the DVDs in the final section of the wraparound display rack in front of the entrance doors, I spotted Silver City, directed by John Sayles and starring Chris Cooper. I've been curious about Sayles' films ever since seeing Sunshine State for a review for the Signal's Escape section in a column I called "From My Netflix Queue." I reviewed that one because of the Florida setting, and since then, I learned that Sayles also writes books, and read his Dillinger in Hollywood: New and Selected Short Stories, and knew that I had to see his other movies.
$5 for Silver City didn't seem as worth it as Revolutionary Road, particularly because I wanted that one, and Silver City had Cooper as a George W. Bush-type. Even though it's satire, it's not one that I'd see right away. I wanted to try something more serious from Sayles. (It turns out that $5 is actually a higher price, since Amazon is selling it for $2.55, and sellers on Amazon Marketplace have it for $1.20. Still not enough for me to see it right away.)
On the second-to-last shelf of that section, I found John Sayles' Casa de Los Babys, starring Maggie Gyllenhaal, Daryl Hannah, Marcia Gay Harden, Rita Moreno, Mary Steenburgen, and Lili Taylor, about six American women in a Latin American town who are each about to adopt a baby. With this cast, and this story, yes. This is what I wanted. For $1.88, yes. As soon as I found that, I put back Silver City.
Meridith was rooting through the toy aisles and came to me with the cart partly full, seeking toys that represented each of us. For her, she found a collection of toy pots and pans, and for me, a toy billiards set, since I like billiards, but can never play it well.
I darted over to the book aisles, and began scanning each title carefully. I immediately pulled out Best of the South: The Best of the Second Decade, "Selected and Introduced by Anne Tyler." These are 20 stories that Tyler chose out of the 186 that editor Shannon Ravenel chose in her twenty years of editing the yearly New Stories from the South anthology. I needed this and I would have it.
A book called In the Neighborhood: The Search for Community on an American Street, One Sleepover at a Time by Peter Lovenheim popped out at me. Sleepover? It turns out that Lovenheim wanted to get to know his neighbors in suburban Rochester, New York, especially after a murder-suicide shook the community, since it appeared that "no one knew anyone else," according to the copy on the inside flap.
He introduced himself to his neighbors and asked politely if he could sleep over. I want to know how his neighbors reacted to this. We writers can get away with some pretty weird shit, though this seems merely unusual. Very unusual. How could I not snatch this up?
Other books popped out at me: Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself by Alan Alda (I read Never Have Your Dog Stuffed, but it's taken all this time to get to this one), A Version of the Truth by Jennifer Kaufman and Karen Mack, Here at the End of the World We Learn to Dance by Lloyd Jones (A novel about the tango, from New Zealand at the end of World War I, to Buenos Aires in the 1950s, to present day, meaning at the beginning of the previous decade, since this was published in 2001), and The Handmaid and the Carpenter by Elizabeth Berg, which was a coincidence since I had ordered her The Year of Pleasures and Never Change during the week. I read The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: And Other Small Acts of Liberation in March, and really liked the short stories that Berg had written, but it seems that my pleasure with those had remained dormant in my mind until now.
While browsing the books, I decided not to buy The Hunt for Red October/K19: The Widowmaker double feature pack blindly. I slit the plastic on the side, enough to open the case a little, and was relieved: There were two discs. That means once I get the binder, I can chuck the packaging and K19, though I might watch it before I do, a little bit out of curiosity since Harrison Ford did well by me in Morning Glory, actually performing a role.
The lines at the registers were longer than usual, and Dad had to pick up the dogs (The grooming place was just down the hill from Big Lots), so Meridith went with him while I paid for the books and DVDs and the toys. As the lady at the register scanned the books, I noticed the most welcome sight of "Softcover $0.50." This was a surprise to me in September when many of the softcovers scanned as 50 cents and I was adding up $3 a few times as I collected a few softcovers, because I thought that's what I would be paying. (That was the price sticker on all the softcovers.)
After I paid for everything and rolled the cart to near the curb to wait for Dad and Meridith and Tigger and Kitty, I looked at the receipt for the books and DVDs. I had gotten every softcover book for 50 cents, including Best of the South, which had scanned as "Fiction Assortment 3." Only In the Neighborhood cost $5.
The toys came out to $87.98, which is enough for four tickets for me, Mom, Dad, and Meridith. Dad has one toy at $20, and Mom, Meridith and I have two toys each that total a little over $20. They all go to a great cause, and I get access to Ninja, so it works out wonderfully.
Next Saturday at Six Flags will be Day 2 of this four-week pleasure cruise. Day 3 is when I see Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, probably the Saturday after it opens, and Day 4 is the start of the NBA season on Christmas Day, and the only day of late that I'll make an effort to get up before 9 a.m., since the first game of the day is on TNT at that time (Noon for the east coast), and features my favorite team, the New York Knicks, playing against the Boston Celtics. I'm psyched, because Amar'e Stoudemire of the Knicks is my favorite player, and Doc Rivers, of the Celtics, is my favorite coach. You'd think it would be Mike D'Antoni of the Knicks, but he looks like a schmuck, coaches like a schmuck, argues on the court like a schmuck, and I don't like schmucks.
Before the attack on the End of Line Club in Tron: Legacy, Castor (Michael Sheen) turns to the camera and says, "This is going to be quite a ride." I hope so, because this next visit to Six Flags will be the last, and I'm hoping that Tatsu and the Green Lantern rollercoaster suck up nearly all the people when I'm there so I can have Ninja all to myself and as many times as I want.
Today was the first day, with a visit to Big Lots because Toys for Tots, in partnership with Six Flags Magic Mountain, is having its annual toy drive, which means this year that if you bring a toy worth $20 and over, you receive free admission to the park for that day. The toy drive is already in progress, having begun today and continuing tomorrow. We're going next Saturday, and the final day is that following Sunday.
I was at Big Lots back in September (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/09/050-bargains.html) and was excited this time for the same reason: Books and DVDs. The rare times that we go there, I make sure my checking account has enough to be drained away. I don't ransack the store--I'm very choosy--but I always make sure I have enough for what I want. And for the toys, since I was paying for them this time.
Dad dropped Meridith and I off curbside at the entrance, to let us get started right away (since the dogs had to be picked up from grooming about an hour later), and after finding that there were no restrooms available in Big Lots, I reasoned that books and DVDs were more important than peeing, even though I was not comfortable, and made a beeline for the DVDs.
I go through every single DVD. I want to know everything that's there, and to make sure I don't miss anything. My objective this time was to find The Hunt for Red October so I didn't have to pay an Amazon shipping charge for it. At the bottom of the first set of shelves, I hit a jackpot I didn't even know I was looking for: Buster, starring Phil Collins, for $1.88. I had seen it twice, because of Phil Collins, and had idly entertained the thought of buying it for my DVD collection, but with the stacks of DVD cases in my room, how could I? I'd drown in DVDs.
But now with a DVD binder on the horizon (I'm looking at one that holds 320 DVDs), I decided that I should get those DVDs I want as part of my collection, and Buster apparently was one of those. On the same shelf was Ang Lee's The Wedding Banquet, which I had never seen, but want to, and for $1.88, why not?
Then came Revolutionary Road for $5, which I adore for the cinematography, especially when Frank (Leonardo DiCaprio) and April (Kate Winslet) are in the hallway of that empty high school after that disastrous community theater performance. I live for moments like that, because I've lived them. I loved being at College of the Canyons on a late Friday afternoon toward 4, after one of my cinema classes ended (I took those for fun, since they were easy A's for me), and there was no one else on the campus. If there was anyone else around, they may have still been in the library or their offices or still their classrooms. It felt like everything in the universe was aligned and there was total peace. I also like Revolutionary Road for the performances, and Sam Mendes is one of my favorite directors, which makes me even more psyched for Skyfall, the next Bond movie.
I spotted Collateral for $5, and remembered admiring it for the cinematography, for getting nighttime Los Angeles so right, but did I really need it again? Some time next year, I'll be a resident of Henderson, Nevada. Why would I want to dwell on what I've been looking forward to leaving behind? King of California, This Book Will Save Your Life by A.M. Homes, and Chore Whore by Heather H. Howard (Souvenirs from Santa Clarita, Los Angeles, and Hollywood, respectively) are exceptions because the memories are minor and mild, and I was never a celebrity personal assistant like Howard was. Her novel is one of the few to get the feeling of Hollywood right, what I remember as an outsider, and I'm fascinated by what she experienced on the inside.
So no. No Collateral. And then I found it: The Hunt for Red October! It came with a problem, though. It was part of a double feature pack with K19: The Widowmaker. I didn't want K19, but I definitely wanted The Hunt for Red October. It was $6, which I would be paying on Amazon anyway, and that would come out to a little over $8 with shipping and handling. I didn't know if this was a double-sided disc or if there were two separate discs in the pack. I shook it slightly and it felt a little weighty, but after I got screwed with the ridiculous packaging of the complete series set of Married with Children, I wasn't sure if I wanted this. And yet, once the binder comes, the packaging won't matter anyway since it'll be in the trash.
Poring over the DVDs in the final section of the wraparound display rack in front of the entrance doors, I spotted Silver City, directed by John Sayles and starring Chris Cooper. I've been curious about Sayles' films ever since seeing Sunshine State for a review for the Signal's Escape section in a column I called "From My Netflix Queue." I reviewed that one because of the Florida setting, and since then, I learned that Sayles also writes books, and read his Dillinger in Hollywood: New and Selected Short Stories, and knew that I had to see his other movies.
$5 for Silver City didn't seem as worth it as Revolutionary Road, particularly because I wanted that one, and Silver City had Cooper as a George W. Bush-type. Even though it's satire, it's not one that I'd see right away. I wanted to try something more serious from Sayles. (It turns out that $5 is actually a higher price, since Amazon is selling it for $2.55, and sellers on Amazon Marketplace have it for $1.20. Still not enough for me to see it right away.)
On the second-to-last shelf of that section, I found John Sayles' Casa de Los Babys, starring Maggie Gyllenhaal, Daryl Hannah, Marcia Gay Harden, Rita Moreno, Mary Steenburgen, and Lili Taylor, about six American women in a Latin American town who are each about to adopt a baby. With this cast, and this story, yes. This is what I wanted. For $1.88, yes. As soon as I found that, I put back Silver City.
Meridith was rooting through the toy aisles and came to me with the cart partly full, seeking toys that represented each of us. For her, she found a collection of toy pots and pans, and for me, a toy billiards set, since I like billiards, but can never play it well.
I darted over to the book aisles, and began scanning each title carefully. I immediately pulled out Best of the South: The Best of the Second Decade, "Selected and Introduced by Anne Tyler." These are 20 stories that Tyler chose out of the 186 that editor Shannon Ravenel chose in her twenty years of editing the yearly New Stories from the South anthology. I needed this and I would have it.
A book called In the Neighborhood: The Search for Community on an American Street, One Sleepover at a Time by Peter Lovenheim popped out at me. Sleepover? It turns out that Lovenheim wanted to get to know his neighbors in suburban Rochester, New York, especially after a murder-suicide shook the community, since it appeared that "no one knew anyone else," according to the copy on the inside flap.
He introduced himself to his neighbors and asked politely if he could sleep over. I want to know how his neighbors reacted to this. We writers can get away with some pretty weird shit, though this seems merely unusual. Very unusual. How could I not snatch this up?
Other books popped out at me: Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself by Alan Alda (I read Never Have Your Dog Stuffed, but it's taken all this time to get to this one), A Version of the Truth by Jennifer Kaufman and Karen Mack, Here at the End of the World We Learn to Dance by Lloyd Jones (A novel about the tango, from New Zealand at the end of World War I, to Buenos Aires in the 1950s, to present day, meaning at the beginning of the previous decade, since this was published in 2001), and The Handmaid and the Carpenter by Elizabeth Berg, which was a coincidence since I had ordered her The Year of Pleasures and Never Change during the week. I read The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted: And Other Small Acts of Liberation in March, and really liked the short stories that Berg had written, but it seems that my pleasure with those had remained dormant in my mind until now.
While browsing the books, I decided not to buy The Hunt for Red October/K19: The Widowmaker double feature pack blindly. I slit the plastic on the side, enough to open the case a little, and was relieved: There were two discs. That means once I get the binder, I can chuck the packaging and K19, though I might watch it before I do, a little bit out of curiosity since Harrison Ford did well by me in Morning Glory, actually performing a role.
The lines at the registers were longer than usual, and Dad had to pick up the dogs (The grooming place was just down the hill from Big Lots), so Meridith went with him while I paid for the books and DVDs and the toys. As the lady at the register scanned the books, I noticed the most welcome sight of "Softcover $0.50." This was a surprise to me in September when many of the softcovers scanned as 50 cents and I was adding up $3 a few times as I collected a few softcovers, because I thought that's what I would be paying. (That was the price sticker on all the softcovers.)
After I paid for everything and rolled the cart to near the curb to wait for Dad and Meridith and Tigger and Kitty, I looked at the receipt for the books and DVDs. I had gotten every softcover book for 50 cents, including Best of the South, which had scanned as "Fiction Assortment 3." Only In the Neighborhood cost $5.
The toys came out to $87.98, which is enough for four tickets for me, Mom, Dad, and Meridith. Dad has one toy at $20, and Mom, Meridith and I have two toys each that total a little over $20. They all go to a great cause, and I get access to Ninja, so it works out wonderfully.
Next Saturday at Six Flags will be Day 2 of this four-week pleasure cruise. Day 3 is when I see Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, probably the Saturday after it opens, and Day 4 is the start of the NBA season on Christmas Day, and the only day of late that I'll make an effort to get up before 9 a.m., since the first game of the day is on TNT at that time (Noon for the east coast), and features my favorite team, the New York Knicks, playing against the Boston Celtics. I'm psyched, because Amar'e Stoudemire of the Knicks is my favorite player, and Doc Rivers, of the Celtics, is my favorite coach. You'd think it would be Mike D'Antoni of the Knicks, but he looks like a schmuck, coaches like a schmuck, argues on the court like a schmuck, and I don't like schmucks.
Before the attack on the End of Line Club in Tron: Legacy, Castor (Michael Sheen) turns to the camera and says, "This is going to be quite a ride." I hope so, because this next visit to Six Flags will be the last, and I'm hoping that Tatsu and the Green Lantern rollercoaster suck up nearly all the people when I'm there so I can have Ninja all to myself and as many times as I want.
Friday, December 2, 2011
I've Figured It Out
I've not been entirely satisfied with my reasons why King of California will be my souvenir from Santa Clarita when we finally move to Henderson. I liked what I wrote in the entry explaining why it will be one of three souvenirs of Southern California (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/09/my-southern-california-souvenirs.html), but it didn't get to the core of what I was thinking, and I only discovered yesterday what I was thinking when I looked at that loft building across from MacArthur Park.
The reasons detailed in that entry still stand. But the main reason I'm taking King of California with me as a souvenir is because it got completely right what this valley is about. The shallowness and aversion to history is threaded throughout these very different lands, despite being of the same valley, and yet King of California doesn't concern itself with that. The movie is not about the valley; it is about using this valley as a means to something, in this case Charlie (Michael Douglas) seeking buried treasure which leads him and his daughter Miranda (Evan Rachel Wood) to the Costco that it's buried under. (The Costco in the movie is the one that's here in this valley, and I've been to it at least twice. It may seem obvious, but King of California was filmed partly in Santa Clarita and in other locations, though it's meant to be Santa Clarita alone.)
If you were to look at this valley on its own, what it has, what the people are like, you'll find nothing you can grasp. But if you have something you're striving for within this valley, then it has something, but that's because it's come from you, not this valley. I can't wait to finally leave because there's nothing of this valley. There's nothing truly organic within it.
In Las Vegas, I can go to the MGM Grand, to the Luxor, to Caesars Palace, and know that it has been here before, that these are parts of what makes Las Vegas what it is. This is history, shiny and smooth as it is. As much as the corporate overlords of these casinos would want to deny the history that Vegas has, they can't. It is here in other forms. It is in the Neon Boneyard, part of the Neon Museum, which has various neon signage from decades long gone. It is in the Mob Museum in downtown Las Vegas that is vociferously supported by former mayor and mob lawyer Oscar Goodman, whose wife is the current mayor of Las Vegas. It opens on Valentine's Day next year. It is in authors and others who work to make sure the history remains alive.
Las Vegas is not the means to anything, and neither are the surrounding areas such as Henderson and Summerlin. It has become bigger than any resident there, which is a great benefit because you can be whoever you want there; you can reinvent yourself either temporarily if you're just visiting, or permanently if you're a resident. The city itself is never greatly affected by such action. It's all up to you.
Here in Santa Clarita, it always feels like you're on your own, that there is no city with you. It's not so much that support is required, just a system of some sort to make you feel like you're somewhere, that you can be part of a place. I get that feeling all the time in Las Vegas, and I know why writer/director Mike Cahill set King of California in Santa Clarita. The valley feels so insignificant that it steps quietly into the background once Charlie sets out on his quest. Had King of California become King of Las Vegas, Charlie would have been swallowed up by everything Las Vegas offers. The Eiffel Tower replica at Paris, the tower at the Stratosphere would have loomed much larger than he ever would be.
It's why Lucky You works even when the script doesn't. Eric Bana's character doesn't expect to be bigger than winning the World Series of Poker. That's all he wants. He maneuvers within Las Vegas to try to get what he wants, interacts with people that orbit within his universe, and knows Las Vegas intimately. That's how I want to know Vegas too, and that's why I never warmed to Santa Clarita in eight years: There was nothing to know here, nothing to connect to. You can have all the goals you want wherever you live, but if you don't have that connection, what good are they? Charlie does in King of California, but because of what Santa Clarita was long before it became crowded by housing developments, when the house he grew up in was surrounded by orange groves and was the only one there. When he gets back to it from the mental hospital, he looks around, bewildered. That connection isn't there anymore, but it doesn't matter! There's treasure to find! He's lucky that he could ignore his incongruity to the area. I can't.
Nor can I easily shrug off these eight years, as much as I want to. I arrived here when I was 19. I'm 27. That's a pretty big chunk of life. King of California as a souvenir at least makes that loss of time feel more gentle than it is. Some good times, but not enough. Once I get to Henderson, I'll begin making up for it fast.
The reasons detailed in that entry still stand. But the main reason I'm taking King of California with me as a souvenir is because it got completely right what this valley is about. The shallowness and aversion to history is threaded throughout these very different lands, despite being of the same valley, and yet King of California doesn't concern itself with that. The movie is not about the valley; it is about using this valley as a means to something, in this case Charlie (Michael Douglas) seeking buried treasure which leads him and his daughter Miranda (Evan Rachel Wood) to the Costco that it's buried under. (The Costco in the movie is the one that's here in this valley, and I've been to it at least twice. It may seem obvious, but King of California was filmed partly in Santa Clarita and in other locations, though it's meant to be Santa Clarita alone.)
If you were to look at this valley on its own, what it has, what the people are like, you'll find nothing you can grasp. But if you have something you're striving for within this valley, then it has something, but that's because it's come from you, not this valley. I can't wait to finally leave because there's nothing of this valley. There's nothing truly organic within it.
In Las Vegas, I can go to the MGM Grand, to the Luxor, to Caesars Palace, and know that it has been here before, that these are parts of what makes Las Vegas what it is. This is history, shiny and smooth as it is. As much as the corporate overlords of these casinos would want to deny the history that Vegas has, they can't. It is here in other forms. It is in the Neon Boneyard, part of the Neon Museum, which has various neon signage from decades long gone. It is in the Mob Museum in downtown Las Vegas that is vociferously supported by former mayor and mob lawyer Oscar Goodman, whose wife is the current mayor of Las Vegas. It opens on Valentine's Day next year. It is in authors and others who work to make sure the history remains alive.
Las Vegas is not the means to anything, and neither are the surrounding areas such as Henderson and Summerlin. It has become bigger than any resident there, which is a great benefit because you can be whoever you want there; you can reinvent yourself either temporarily if you're just visiting, or permanently if you're a resident. The city itself is never greatly affected by such action. It's all up to you.
Here in Santa Clarita, it always feels like you're on your own, that there is no city with you. It's not so much that support is required, just a system of some sort to make you feel like you're somewhere, that you can be part of a place. I get that feeling all the time in Las Vegas, and I know why writer/director Mike Cahill set King of California in Santa Clarita. The valley feels so insignificant that it steps quietly into the background once Charlie sets out on his quest. Had King of California become King of Las Vegas, Charlie would have been swallowed up by everything Las Vegas offers. The Eiffel Tower replica at Paris, the tower at the Stratosphere would have loomed much larger than he ever would be.
It's why Lucky You works even when the script doesn't. Eric Bana's character doesn't expect to be bigger than winning the World Series of Poker. That's all he wants. He maneuvers within Las Vegas to try to get what he wants, interacts with people that orbit within his universe, and knows Las Vegas intimately. That's how I want to know Vegas too, and that's why I never warmed to Santa Clarita in eight years: There was nothing to know here, nothing to connect to. You can have all the goals you want wherever you live, but if you don't have that connection, what good are they? Charlie does in King of California, but because of what Santa Clarita was long before it became crowded by housing developments, when the house he grew up in was surrounded by orange groves and was the only one there. When he gets back to it from the mental hospital, he looks around, bewildered. That connection isn't there anymore, but it doesn't matter! There's treasure to find! He's lucky that he could ignore his incongruity to the area. I can't.
Nor can I easily shrug off these eight years, as much as I want to. I arrived here when I was 19. I'm 27. That's a pretty big chunk of life. King of California as a souvenir at least makes that loss of time feel more gentle than it is. Some good times, but not enough. Once I get to Henderson, I'll begin making up for it fast.
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