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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Langer's is My Candle on the Water

A real egg cream with foam that could serve as the top of a lemon meringue pie (I know an egg cream has no egg, but this was very close to how meringue looks). A small bowl of matzo ball soup where the gently seasoned soup and the matzo ball were both very much real and supported each other incredibly well. A large order of fries, true deli fries, crisp enough on the outside without being difficult, and soft enough on the inside to make you reach for more and more. A pastrami and chopped liver sandwich that I didn't even know had been one of my dreams come true, with blessed seeded rye bread featuring a snappy crust, chopped liver that tasted like it had been made by caring minds, hearts and hands, and pastrami that cures all ills. I'm serious. If you're feeling down, this pastrami can perk you right up. If you're a vegetarian, I wish you could convert just one day for this.

All this and pumpkin cheesecake is what I had at Langer's Deli, across from MacArthur Park, where Mom, Dad, Meridith and I had gone for Dad's birthday, for us to take a picture of him under the sign, because of the adult version of the Song That Doesn't End (Think of Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop and you'll understand the reference I'm getting at). Dad was still upstairs near the restrooms (You have to go up a few steep steps to get to them because this building has been here for decades and the management of Langer's will never change any part of it and rightly so), Mom and Meridith were at the counter getting a rye bread to take home, and I was just sitting at our booth, flooded equally with pure pleasure and happiness. In eight years of living in Southern California, I had never felt like this. The music playing overhead had turned to an instrumental version of Helen Reddy's Candle on the Water, which was much more pleasant than the original. This was one of the best days of my life, a most welcome rescue from eight years of soulless living, though not by our hand.

Israel is not the Promised Land. Langer's is. I've never been more proud of my heritage because of it. The pickles served with the sandwiches were the real deal, cold and crunchy, and very possibly imported from New York. Langer's is the one true New York deli in Los Angeles. Jerry's Deli, which we went to many times, is L.A.'s idea of what a New York deli is, which is a bad idea; very, very bad. It's why the matzo ball soup there is so lousy because they are working on assumptions, not reality. It's not enough to have matzo ball soup on the menu and posters of Broadway shows in frames hung throughout the restaurant. That's not all of what New York is. It's also about finding where you feel you belong and embracing it so tightly that it can't wriggle out of your grasp.

I know nothing about actually being in New York. My parents do, having lived there long before I was even an idle thought, growing up there, and I've had so much of it drilled into me (along with having a subscription to "The New Yorker" that will so far last until September 2014), that it's not a stretch to consider myself an Honorary New Yorker. I don't want to live there, but I like what it represents in food and culture and one day, in my travels to all the presidential libraries in the nation, I'll stop in New York City after going to the FDR Presidential Library and Museum upstate to gawk and genuflect at The Strand, which has "18 Miles of Books," as they so proudly state on their website. By the time I do this, I know it'll still be there. This kind of bookstore can only exist in New York City.

None of the interior of Langer's seems to have changed since 1947, though probably modernized where necessary, but out of view of the customers. It's tight seating, it sits squarely in a heavily Latino area, but it will not move. It has been here for decades and it will remain for decades more. I wouldn't be surprised if Langer's is still around in 2043. This is most important because it feels peaceful inside. This is a sanctuary for masterful pastrami, for all the dishes that make me proud to be Jewish, including kishka, which we ordered too.

What helped this day become great was not just the food. At MacArthur Park, it had been a view of a loft building, four floors, and you could see a bit into the lower-level lofts from ground level. I had Meridith take photos of it with her phone because it feels like there's something there for me to write. It may be a play, or a novel, and even though I don't know what it is yet, I think I will in a few weeks or a few months. I have time because of all the other books I want to write. I take my inspiration from locations first, and then fill out the rest. Nothing is more important to me than place.

The day also became one of the greatest of my life because of a waiter named Kevin, who has clearly been an employee of Langer's for years and years. He didn't say much, and didn't have to, because he had an instinct of what we wanted. He was patient, a little flummoxed by my sister's request for a pastrami and whitefish sandwich which couldn't be done, but he never showed it. There was a slight change in his voice, but that was it. No ridicule, nothing. When I ordered cheesecake, he came back after a few minutes and said that there was also pumpkin cheesecake. I immediately said "Pumpkin," and he sounded amused because I'm enthusiastic about pumpkin pie. It's my favorite. So to get pumpkin cheesecake is not only preferred, but rare, since I don't have cheesecake very often.

Kevin felt like the paintings on the walls next to and near our booth. The largest, by an "M. Welman" in 1968, was of a man working behind a deli counter, slicing pastrami, with a stack of rye bread near him, old ladies waiting in front of the corner, and one looking over the counter, making sure the man is slicing it right. I miss those pushy old ladies at Lox Haven in Margate, Florida. I prefer them to the stone figures in my current neighborhood, who merely glare and travel in packs, tut-tutting everything about the neighborhood that doesn't conform to their long-held standards. Those old ladies at Lox Haven were pushy, but it was because they knew what they wanted and they were tenacious in getting it. The ones I knew are probably long gone, but as much as I was miffed at their pushiness, I wish I had it now. I think it's because they were with me in solidarity. We were all Jewish, we knew that there was lox and whitefish in those cases and we were going to live as we were meant to.

The paintings one booth down from us, also by Welman, were of men slicing pastrami in the kitchen. Kevin seemed like he could have been one of them in that time, dignified, knowing the work had to be done, and taking pride in it. He wasn't an actor just slumming as a waiter, as so many seem to be in Greater Los Angeles. It looked like he makes the profession an artform. When we ordered our drinks and I ordered an egg cream, he misheard me and thought I ordered a cream soda like Mom and Meridith did. I told him, politely as I always am, that I ordered an egg cream, and he apologized in his low-key tone. No apology needed. I was in awe of him at the start, at his efficiency, at his careful managing of his tables, at his way of seemingly floating through the restaurant, because there were moments when he appeared and I wondered where in the heck he had come from.

I was right about chili cheese fries feeling disrespectful at Langer's. I had already made up my mind before we walked in, but after we did, I knew it wasn't possible. Not with tile flooring that reminded us of Publix's floors back in Florida. Not with walking past the counter seating where real people were eating, real Los Angeles denizens. Not with passing the revolving glass case of cheesecake and other cakes. Not with passing a vertical refrigerated double-door display case that had the Langer's logo across the top. Not with sitting down and being ushered into a universe of Jewish food that had eluded us in all the time we've lived in Southern California. Mom asked Dad later on how in the hell we could have gone to Jerry's Deli many times when this was here.

On the freeway back to Santa Clarita, on my mp3 player, I listened to the "Star Tunnel" music that's heard when entering Space Mountain in Tomorrowland at the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=azxQYf9KT94&feature=related), and decided that if there is an afterlife, that's what I want to hear on the way in. There also had better be a Langer's there too, just like this one. A little while ago, I had a slice of the rye bread we brought home, and that's the first thing I want when I get there.

In early October, I wrote about where I am in my head when I write and when I'm reading my writing, and editing (http://scrapsofliteracy.blogspot.com/2011/10/where-i-go-when-i-write.html). I'm adding Langer's to that, because I'm going to spend a lot of time back at that booth, with that pastrami and chopped liver sandwich in front of me, with Kevin appearing out of nowhere, and that perfect egg cream. It's not possible for me to live at Langer's, so this is the next best thing.