There Can Only Be The Memory

There comes a time when you realize you cannot recreate a memory, and you should not keep trying. My time came last night.

We didn't have pumpkin pie with Thanksgiving this year, and in fact, the frozen Marie Callender's pumpkin pie we bought is still in the freezer, relegated there when we found pecan pie from Trader Joe's and a blueberry pie from Ralphs that we wanted to try.

In past years, when we could reach Vallarta Supermarket in Oxnard before Thanksgiving, I usually went for the Jessie Lord pumpkin pie, made in Torrance, which had baked into it the heart and soul of whoever had made it. It was the one pie that wasn't quite the taste, but reminded me of the slice of pumpkin pie I had had at Six Flags Magic Mountain on a Saturday in early December 2011, when we had gotten free admission for the day after donating toys to the annual Toy Drive.

That slice was found at the Cyber Cafe, and I had seen it, among many, in the case there in the morning, before heading out to all the rollercoasters, and I had been thinking about it all day, up until the early evening when I finally got it. (Read about it here.)

I must have e-mailed Magic Mountain either right after I got home or in the days after, to find out who had made that pumpkin pie. Someone had put their heart and soul into that pumpkin pie that became slices, as prominently as the nutmeg and cinnamon and a crust that showed me that this was not the typical pumpkin pie. This was something rare and special.

I received an email that Monday of pre-Christmas week from someone at Magic Mountain, informing me that the pumpkin pie had come from Sysco, the corporate restaurant food distributor, and I was stunned. How had someone gotten this pie past their monolithic outlook? I needed to know, and I also needed to know of the person, if possible, who had made this pie. 

I searched. I think I had even emailed whatever local Sysco email address I could find to ask them. But I never got an answer. The blessed maker of that pie disappeared into the ether, remaining a memory as potent as the ones that would follow when I began my five years in Las Vegas, smelling deep-seated, devoted cooking from a mobile home in the park we lived in in Las Vegas our first year, then from second-floor apartment windows just after the side entrance to Pacific Islands Apartments, where we lived our first year in Henderson in the back (and our final year, too, that time in the front), as well as the bread pudding I stumbled upon at the buffet at Green Valley Ranch (also in Henderson), and have never forgotten, just like the pumpkin pie. But those are stories for another day.

I vowed back in that December of 2011 to search for other great pumpkin pies when we finally moved to Las Vegas, but really it was just to try to find that slice again, a mission I also carried with me in my first and second year in Ventura. Now it's my third year here, and I got to thinking about that miraculous slice of pumpkin pie again after passing up another whole pumpkin pie at 99 Cents Only last Sunday. A few weeks before that, I had bought another brand of whole pumpkin pie there, from Canada, in my continuing quest to rediscover that particular slice, as if the person who made it might go from baking company to baking company, simply baking with the same heart and soul and moving on. 

Last night, I thought about it again, an idle moment while reading Where I Come From: Stories from the Deep South by Rick Bragg, a collection of his columns and longer pieces from Southern Living and Garden & Gun. I am a Southerner by birth, not by blood, but I carry with me Southern tendencies for storytelling as he lets forth, and a love of language that usually takes a few days, but is always worth it. Perhaps reading of his memories of his South, his hometown of Jacksonville, Alabama, got me thinking about that slice of pumpkin pie. And I wondered if it was enough that I had simply had the chance, that moment, to have that pumpkin pie, which was completely unexpected anyway because up to that point, I hadn't really been into pumpkin pie. It was sometimes there as part of past Thanksgivings, but it wasn't one of my favorites then. 

That slice of pumpkin pie at Magic Mountain obsessed me, made me want to know more about pumpkin pie, the traditions it served, the people that made it. But overall, I was always looking for another slice or even a whole pie exactly as heavenly as that one slice. It's not realizing that no future pumpkin pie could live up to such an exalted standard that finally stopped me short, but rather what I already have.

I have that memory of that particular slice of pumpkin pie for as long as my mind lasts, hopefully well into my 118th year. I was sitting at a table outside the Cyber Cafe (the inside had the computers where you could sit and surf the web for a price), the cold outside was a little sharp, but all that mattered was that pie, that it had obviously been made by someone with a huge heart who was thinking about the rest of the world and wanted them to know that they were thinking all the good they could about the world. It was so obvious. The pie was like a gentle family of pumpkin and spices that dearly welcomed you, that encouraged you to come on in and relax for a while, hear a story or two, or perhaps tell your own. And that also made me realize something else, something equally important.

If I keep searching for another pumpkin pie just like that slice, and perhaps find it, then I diminish the glow of the memory of that slice because here is this one, and there may well be more just like it. It's not that I would completely forget my reaction to the pie at Magic Mountain, but it wouldn't seem as important as it once was upon finding its equal.

I want this memory as it is, for another reason as well. I'm doing research for a few novels, indecisive about which one I want to focus on in the first place. Most of these novels are made up of memories, certain ones that I want to mine in order to fully come to terms with traumatic times in my life, and some will fuel short stories where the characters are trying to recreate a memory as I tried with that pumpkin pie. There's even another novel I'm thinking of writing, where raspberry jam tasted so long ago in boyhood is the catalyst for what happens (inspired by when I tasted raspberry jam at Allison's Country Cafe across from the back end of the Pacific View Mall, directly facing the local bus transfer station, and went back a few weeks after that breakfast to buy a jar of my own). 

There are other novels I want to write simply because I want to spend more time in particular places in my imagination, such as when I was a student at College of the Canyons in Valencia, and had the Canyon Call newsroom all to myself to write my article about the men's golf team, whose coach was my cinema professor. I wrote in the late afternoon and felt completely at peace, and it's what has inspired me to seek to write one novel in a journalistic tone and format because while I don't miss the vicious deadlines in journalism, I want to go back to it on my terms, currently studying the structure of long-form journalism, seeking to capture it through a newspaper, as I intend to set this novel amidst the years I lived in Santa Clarita, before newspapers went on an even steeper decline. In fact, I want to include that pumpkin pie from Magic Mountain in one scene of that novel.

I know that there's no way I can write nonfiction or essays about my life. I don't have many of the dates straight anymore, and overall, I usually remember pieces instead of whole days. It's better to fictionalize what I have and be able to use it that way. The pumpkin pie is still there, then. And I am still at the Cyber Cafe, in wondrous rapture over how a park that prides itself on rollercoasters can also think about providing personal moments like that, where a person discovers more about himself than he thought there was before that moment. If you've got to spend hours and days and months and years sitting alone and writing, you might as well have pumpkin pie as it once was, as energy for whatever emerges.

A Random Assortment of My Life

There's been nothing going on to merit a full entry on its own, at least not until later Friday or Saturday, because on Friday morning, my co-author on my book about the making of the Airport movies has invited me along to the media opening of Lex Luthor: Drop of Doom, a 400-foot freefall ride clamped to both sides of the Superman: Escape from Krypton tower at Six Flags Magic Mountain. Ever since leaving San Diego and his job at a magazine there, and moving back to Venice, he's reconnected with publications he's worked for, and that includes an amusement park magazine that assigned him to write a profile of this new ride. He has a comp media pass for this that can get him and one other person in, and that's me. He has the ulterior motive of us finally meeting face to face and being able to talk more about the book than we have in past weeks since he's been busy with other writing assignments and working with a '70s actress on her memoirs. Plus, he may still have the Lang family scrapbooks that he's keeping safe for actress/singer Monica Lewis while she moves to a new house. She was married to Universal film executive Jennings Lang who was the executive-in-charge on Airport (he watched the dailies and made sure everything was going ok, but with a producer like Ross Hunter, he had nothing to be concerned about), and then produced the sequels. Lang died in 1996, and according to my co-author, the scrapbooks potentially contain a lot of information that only I might be looking for. He's already pulled out what he wants for the book, but wants me to have a look as well. He goes for an overall view. I want to go in deep. We're a perfect match in that way, also because of his connection to the Lang family, having worked with Lewis on her memoir, which was published in May of last year.

So I get free admission into Magic Mountain, and it's going to be my Third Farewell Tour. I want to go to all the spots I've liked, including Pistachio Park, and maybe, just maybe, up the Sky Tower to the now unfortunately empty floor, freed of all its historical artifacts, which were the one thing that distinguished Magic Mountain from the rest of the Santa Clarita Valley, that acknowledgement of its history. However, it has the benefit of being set apart from the rest of the valley by its location to the extent that you don't feel like you're in Santa Clarita. But that history was still important.

Nevertheless, this is the perfect opportunity to say goodbye to Magic Mountain, to silently give my thanks for the many times it sustained me, helped me keep my sanity in this valley. Plus, I've never been to any media event like this, so why not have a totally different experience at Magic Mountain than what I usually had?

- Next item on my list in Notepad of things to write about is my latest DVD reviews, or at least my DVD reviews since May 31. I can't believe it's been that long since I've posted anything about them. I liked my reviews of seasons 3 and 4 of That '70s Show, and I finally sorted out my feelings about Tyler Perry in my review of his Good Deeds. He would be better if he doesn't push so hard, and there's one scene in Good Deeds that shows a potentially great future for him as a filmmaker. So here's the many I've done since my review of Episodes:

Zero Bridge

Law & Order: Criminal Intent: The Seventh Year

Love is On the Air

Trial & Retribution: Set 5

That '70s Show: Season Three

That '70s Show: Season Four

Miss Minoes

Margaret

Designing Women: The Final Season

PTown Diaries

Tyler Perry's Good Deeds

The Fairy

Father Dowling Mysteries: The Second Season

- In my reading of all the issues of The Henderson Press, I'm on Vol. 3, No. 3, January 19-25, 2012, I'm happy to say that I can amend my opinion of the weekly newspaper. Editor Carla J. Zvonec has finally stepped back from writing every single article in order to actually manage the paper, and not only are her editorials well-written, but finally the Henderson Press has focus and passion for the area again. There are outstanding reporters in Buford Davis, Guy Dawson, and Brian Sodoma, and the level of silly writing that used to plague these pages has dropped dramatically. Unlike Don Logay at his worst, these reporters realize that the paper is about the city, not about them. I liked Logay for his passion for Lake Las Vegas, but I hated how he was so obviously marketing it instead of just reporting it. The writing is much sharper and the profiles of various people in business and businesses themselves do more than just point out that they're there. These reporters are finally finding out that there's a lot of interesting stories in these businesses.

After Mom and Dad came back from Las Vegas and gave me all the publications I wanted to read (including that week's issue of Las Vegas Weekly, a few issues of Las Vegas Seven, and Friday's edition of the Review-Journal), I found the latest edition of the Henderson Press and was very happy. Henderson won't be my home, but I know I'll visit often and I'm confident of always being well-informed because of the Henderson Press. They've finally reached a zenith from which I hope they never come down.

- Today, in honor of Independence Day, Turner Classic Movies showed 1776, one of my favorite musicals. As I watched yet again the business and arguments of the Second Continental Congress, I came up with an idea that could either be a biography if I can find enough information, or certainly a novel. So much has been written about John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and others in that Congress, but there's been very little written about one of those figures. A novel set around that debate on independence from this man's perspective could be interesting. I know that the debate probably wasn't what it looked like in 1776 (For example, Richard Henry Lee said to John Hancock that he had to decline a spot on the committee to draft a Declaration of Independence because he was asked to serve as governor of Virginia. In reality, his wife was ill), but it would still be something to see it all from this one perspective I want to pursue. I've gotta start writing some of these novels so I can keep my list manageable.

- Around where we're going to live in Las Vegas, there's nine Wienerschnitzels, five Sonics, a Walmart, a Vons supermarket, a 7-11, a Smith's supermarket, the Whitney library branch, and I'm sure I'm forgetting a few other things. Everything's accessible, and it's far back enough from the Strip to feel separate from it yet make you want to go as often as you can.

1776 is the only movie I've watched in full in a while. I'm favoring books more and more now and sticking to it. In the past three days alone, I've read five books, including The Age of Miracles by Karen Walker Thompson and Zombie Spaceship Wasteland by Patton Oswalt. When will Patton Oswalt write another book? He's got another career in this if he wants it and I want more from him. Also, read The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. Don't even ask "What? Why?!". Just do it. It may very well be the best book of this year and many previous years, even though it was published this year.

History Erased

Three weeks ago, I learned from The Coaster Guy that the Six Flags Magic Mountain memorabilia in the Sky Tower had been completely removed, including the framed awards on two walls, bringing it back to its original form of people just riding the elevator up and looking at the view from all sides. I'm disappointed, because this was the one place in the Santa Clarita Valley where history was alive. History here is usually sad and decrepit. It has meaning, but it's not quite there because it always feels like regret. I know that people have history that they're not too proud of, but if we're talking the history of a place, the history of a valley, there should be more. And the Sky Tower Museum did have more. I agree with Kurt, the proprietor of the site, that it "was a great idea, but I don’t think it was executed very well." He's right on that count. The memorabilia was there, and so was that feeling of history being necessary. There were costumes and props and decommissioned seats from rollercoasters that didn't need those seats anymore, or didn't need to be a rollercoaster anymore. It was a random assortment, though. No chronological order, no theme. No section for rollercoasters, and then stage shows or outdoor shows, and then the overall park, such as it would be with maps from the 1970s. What Six Flags Magic Mountain should have done is train the employees in the history of the park. No tests or anything like that; just make sure that they can speak confidently enough about the history and answer any questions. In fact, they should have had a few sheets detailing questions most likely to be asked in the Sky Tower Museum.

If Six Flags Magic Mountain was run by a company that still cared about its history like Knotts Berry Farm is in Buena Park (a town heavy with the ghosts of its history, but not as gloomy as that sounds), they could consult former employees who might still be in touch with others throughout that division of the company, or known historians, and create exhibits that give people a full view of what the park was like back then. Have those former employees from long ago and those historians come up with a program that's palatable to the average visitor, and still detailed enough for the devoted fan. This is how the Sky Tower could have been best used, and with the benefit of that panoramic view, docents (as in paid employees that wanted this position) could point out where certain areas used to be and where the dolphin shows had been, and whatever else visitors might have wanted to know.

But would it have worked? Would there have been enough visitors to justify such a venture? Idealistically, I would hope so. But realistically, I'm not sure. Visitors who live in Santa Clarita just want the rides, and to get out of the heat for a little while during those months. Tourists want to see the park, and try to understand how in the heck people could simply walk up that huge frickin' Samurai Summit without either pulling something or collapsing from exhaustion, but on a not-too-steep incline so they don't roll down the hill. I would hope, even realistically, that mixed into those crowds are those interested enough in the history of place, to wonder what the park had been before its current incarnation, to try to imagine the park from the Sky Tower without all those rides, without those shows, without those food stands, and without the Sky Tower, imagining all that emptiness before it began to be filled in.

In the comments section of Kurt's post, he says that the artifacts were moved to Level P1, which is the "floor of the tower under the museum," now meaning under the panoramic view. It's amazing what's actually contained within the tower, as Kurt wrote in the early days of his blog:

"It stands 385 feet tall, has two observation decks around the 300 foot mark, and is serviced by two elevators. It can even be configured as a restaurant with the dining area on one floor and the kitchen on the other. Magic Mountain uses it as merely an observation deck, however they did furnish it with some historical park memorabilia in 2008 after a park employee suggested they create some sort of a museum."

Configured as a restaurant. Is the kitchen even up to code anymore? If they were to go that way, would they have to upgrade the equipment? This is what I'd want to know and also want to know if the dining configuration was ever used for any events. I'm sure it was, but these are the details that could have kept the Sky Tower Museum going.

Today, we four went to the Walmart on Kelly Johnson Parkway, the one that overlooks Six Flags Magic Mountain from a distance. Through willowy trees that have grown tall and bend airily in the wind, you can see the Superman: Escape from Krypton tower, as well as the Sky Tower. Superman: Escape from Krypton is having Lex Luthor: Drop of Doom added to it, which means clamping two separate tracks on each side of the tower, as a freefall kind of ride, or a drop tower ride, as they say. Who's they? Rollercoaster and theme park enthusiasts. I trust their word.

After we parked, I looked out at Six Flags Magic Mountain, at the Sky Tower and thought about that post with great regret. This is not a valley that's known for its history because it constantly presses on. We have to keep moving, we have to embrace the future, and then we have to discard that part of the future that has become the past and chase after the new future. Then the new new future. And, oh look! The new new new future!

One of the worst things happening to the Santa Clarita Valley, though few notice since it's financially in the crapper and wouldn't be if more people subscribed (though there's nothing worth subscribing for), is that the weekend Escape section of The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of this valley, has been cut down to 7 pages, which is basically nothing. I know. I worked with 16 pages when I was the interim editor and there was a lot more to play with. 7 pages in this edition is movie listings, an AP movie review of The Avengers by Christy Lemire (or at least I think it was The Avengers, though it doesn't matter), a few paragraphs from Chuck Shepard's News of the Weird, which is also part of the AP wire service for newspapers to use, and that's it. Nothing else. Nothing about this valley, and nothing about what's going on in this valley. Nothing to tell about its history, nothing to tell about anyone who might be doing something with its history, like a lecture or something. It's sadly a reflection on this valley because it is that shallow. Most who live here work in Los Angeles, and don't want to live in Los Angeles, so they come back here after work. This valley is the true definition of a bedroom community, minus "community," because there's no sense of one anywhere in here. Some people try, and I admire them for it, but it seems like a futile effort. How can it be done when L.A. is only half an hour south? L.A.'s not so great with its history either, as I learned from Taco USA: How Mexican Food Conquered America by Gustavo Arellano. A lot of whitewashing of history on Olvera Street, and a harkening back to the good old pueblo days, which didn't actually exist. History is only useful there if it's beneficial. Otherwise, what history?

Also in Arellano's fascinating history tour, I learned about San Bernardino, "about sixty miles east of Los Angeles," which was starting to become "America's fast-food incubator." Taco Bell began in the L.A. suburb of Downey in 1962. I read something about Anaheim in here, but I can't find it. While reading that section, I thought about Anaheim and Buena Park, and how both retain their history in many forms. They may not pay a great deal of attention to it, but they don't ignore it, they don't shun it, and they aren't ashamed of it. In the years before we began to be set on Las Vegas as our next and final residence (once I'm there, I'm not moving. It's where I belong and I don't think any other city in America would fit me so comfortably as Las Vegas does), I think I would not have been so angry toward the vapidity of the Santa Clarita Valley if I had studied Anaheim and Buena Park closely. I wrote about Buena Park in late January 2010, and I still feel the same about it. It's there for those who seek its history. It's not trying to be something it never was. Anaheim fascinates me because even though it would seem that there's nothing else outside of Disneyland, it feels like it has its pockets of history. All those past lives and past dates and past events are part of its fabric. It absorbed them and gained character from them. Whenever we went to the now-unfortunately-closed Po Folks in Buena Park, I always got a copy of the Orange County Register. The paper has always covered Orange County extremely well, but what interested me the most was Jonathan Lansner, the Register's real estate writer. How could anyone be interested enough in real estate to write about it? I can't understand it, but people are interested in it, and Lansner always writes about it so well, making such clear sense out of all the numbers. I wondered who Lansner is when he's away from the Orange County Register, what got him interested in real estate. History has always been accessible in Orange County. It takes some time to find, I'm sure, but it's there. There's no fear of being seen as old, as seems to be the mentality in Los Angeles and Santa Clarita. Perhaps that's why history is hidden or erased, as it felt upon seeing the photos of that empty Sky Tower floor and walls.

Then on Saturday, while Mom, Dad, and Meridith were out, remembering that Escape section, I thought about what I would have done to revive the section, if there was management willing to make it vibrant again, getting rid of the monotony that has poisoned it. I thought about more stories of community events, profiles of people with different hobbies, including gardening because that's always been interesting to me as an observer. Articles about Santa Clarita's history that include interviews with those who have lived that history or have studied it well. As much as I loathe this valley and will happily never go back to it once I'm gone, it needs this. It needs this attention. The entire area always looks so dry, and that's not because of the weather. It's because no one wants to try to prop it up, to give it life. It's the bedroom community mentality. The major flaw in my "plan," is finding writers who can write and are passionate about this valley, who don't mind being paid the pittance that The Signal barely offers. A new owner would be an improvement, but only if it was someone first rich enough, and secondly who has lived in this valley for decades who actually loves it and wants to see it made better, more active. This shouldn't just be a bedroom community. This is where people live, and I've heard that there are people who live here who have never left this valley. I take it to mean that they've never driven out to L.A. or Burbank or Pasadena or Anaheim or Buena Park, but I find that absolutely impossible. Considering what's offered here, how could they find anything to do? The library only goes so far.

I wish for more for this valley. As awful as it has been to me, I really do. But whereas Buena Park's ghosts remain, and its history is always there, Santa Clarita is heavy with apathy. It's there. People just want to do their necessary errands, eat wherever the booze is good, go to a movie, get out of this valley on a Friday night, and that's it. They get what they put into it. Maybe Anaheim and Buena Park are just more interesting because they're removed from Los Angeles and Hollywood by extension. They have their own distinct identities because of that. They're not clawing and yowling for the power of media. They are who they are, in all that they offer. At least history exists somewhere in Southern California.

Discovering More of Me

At the end of the day at Six Flags Magic Mountain, into the evening in mid-December, I stopped in again at the main souvenir store to see what Superman t-shirts they had. Not any with the logo. I wanted a Superman t-shirt with the Man of Steel himself on it. I wanted to see his face, his power, and wear it proudly.

I first spotted a Superman t-shirt in a heavy duty can. Pop the top off and you find a black t-shirt wrapped tighter than you think a t-shirt could be. It was like a small block in my hand. I liked the image of Superman plowing through the black color of the t-shirt and his name above him in bright yellow letters with red rectangles on top of each letter to simulate speed. Perfect.

Two days after that visit, I unwrapped the t-shirt and found it severely wrinkled, as was to be expected from how it had been packaged. A trip in the washing machine and then the dryer eliminated some of the wrinkles, but not all. At least the shirt smelled clean.

I must have put it in the wash a second time, though I don't remember when, because I found it in the far left stack of t-shirts in my closet and was thinking about wearing it on our food shopping errands earlier this evening. It fit, but the sleeves made it an impossible t-shirt for me. They were so short, nearly reaching my shoulders, and I'm more modest than that. I will never be one who wears a sleeveless t-shirt, and I never liked tank tops either. I wore them when I was younger, but that was it.

So I gave the t-shirt to Meridith, who's excited to have it since she's a huge Superman fan. I am too, but she was first. She easily wears nearly sleeveless t-shirts. I prefer t-shirts with sleeves that end a few inches above the crook of my arm. I never thought about this at length until finding that that shirt didn't fit. It's always been an automatic part of who I am. Fortunately, I have a gray Superman t-shirt with the Six Flags logo on it, and that suits me because the sleeves are more reasonable.

No short shorts for me either. I'm not that brave.

Someone Got It Right

Three Saturdays ago at Six Flags Magic Mountain, I tried the pumpkin pie I had been thinking about all day, at a table outside the Cyber Cafe in the central plaza with the glut of souvenir shops. It was the best one I had had in all the eight years I'd lived in the Santa Clarita Valley, though I don't think I'd been into pumpkin pie when we moved here. I remember many lemon meringue pies, some chocolate pies, an apple pie or two. I think I'd tried pumpkin pie when this valley began to get to me in the last four years. It's the one pie that's solid in nature, reliable, able to pull you through anything, a great comfort when you need it and even when you don't.

This particular slice had the perfect balance of pumpkin, spices and sugar. No one flavor dominated another and whoever made it knew just how much spice to put in. I vowed to e-mail Six Flags Magic Mountain and ask who had made the pie. I wanted to buy more.

I got a call this past Monday from a woman who works at Magic Mountain, possibly overseeing the food they sell there. I didn't ask. I was shocked because I didn't remember e-mailing Magic Mountain about the pie. Did I e-mail them that night, after I'd gotten home from the park? Did I e-mail them after getting home from Burbank after a day of IKEA, the Burbank Town Center Mall (and a few games of Simpsons pinball, Galaga, and a game of air hockey), and Barnes & Noble? After I thanked the woman for the information and hung up, I tried to figure it out. I honestly don't remember. I must have been really tired whenever I e-mailed them, yet I still was able to form whole words.

The woman told me that the pumpkin pie had come from Sysco. Sysco! The food distributor! Meridith was surprised when I told her where the pumpkin pie had come from, and told me she had heard something about them having test kitchens somewhere. Maybe that's true, to make sure that the products they push are of the quality they need them to be, but this pumpkin pie could not have come from a committee. This had to have come from the mind and heart of someone who had grown up with pumpkin pie, who had seen relatives make it, who saw how much nutmeg, cinnamon and ginger to put in, who had made their own as they got older and learned how they liked it and what worked best.

I doubt I'll be able to find that one person, if it even was one person who had come up with the recipe, but I've got to search. I've got to know. Even three weeks after, I still remember the taste of that pumpkin pie, and before I embark on my quest to find other great pumpkin pies in Las Vegas, along with chili-cheese and other covered fries, marinara sauce (Not the crappy, liquidy marinara sauces I've had here), and quesadillas, I want to get on the trail of this particular pumpkin pie, just to know.

Once businesses get back up and running after the start of 2012, and I'm deep into my book research again, I'll use the pumpkin pie search as an occasional break from it. There's a Los Angeles branch of Sysco with an "800" number, and I'll start there. I know it's a corporation, so it's very likely that they won't be as easily forthcoming as the woman from Six Flags was, but I've got to try. And even if nothing comes of it, that taste will be a good start for my pumpkin pie search in Las Vegas, to find one just as good or better than that one. I don't see how it's possible, but it can be there.

Day 2, Part 3 of a Four-Week Pleasure Cruise: Would It Have Been Better If?...

Looking out at the rest of the park from the Sky Tower, as it begins to get dark, the light touches the rollercoasters and ride vehicles and trees and walking paths in such a way that it makes it all the only place in this entire to have feelings. When it's sunny out, and even when not, it assumes full control. It is confident of its power in offering up so many rollercoasters, in ensuring that a lot of people have a good time. When the sun goes down as it did in those moments, it feels sad that people have to leave soon, have to give up this temporary world for what awaits them wherever they come from. It wants to get a stranglehold on the sunlight, push it back up, and spread it out to the entire park again. People can't leave yet. There's still so much to do.

This is why it closes at 6 p.m. in winter. There's not enough lighting throughout the park. What is there is suitable only to the immediate areas, but never beyond that. You'd have to bring in floodlights if you wanted to illuminate the park entirely, but that would be too harsh. Near the Golden Bear Theatre, there's lights in the souvenir shop, and a few other places, but not among that walking path. You can get to where you're going, though, by the arcade ahead and brighter lights as you get to the central plaza near the front gates.

The elevator came back up and that was it for us. No reason to stay longer. There's a lot less memorabilia than there was last year. Maybe some of it was being spruced up, maybe they rotate it. It didn't seem like enough, as if there's indifference here as to whether people know more about the park as it was. It's one of the rare instances here that the attitude of the Santa Clarita Valley has crept in: No history. Only the present and the future are allowed.

Going down in the elevator with a few other people, including two employees, I knew already what the park looks like at dusk from on high and what the seemingly distant valley looks like too. So I spent those few minutes looking at the wires of the elevator moving in the structure as we went down. You can see stairwells, all painted orange just like the rest of the tower, and once on the ground, the other elevator, which wasn't in use since there weren't that many people in the tower. Never are. It's the same line of thinking used at Superman: Escape from Krypton. If the crowds grow, then they'll use the second vehicle.

We passed Ninja, and I felt like seven times on it had been enough. "7" is a major number in Las Vegas, and it felt right with a farewell to it that way while looking ahead to my new home.

At the top of Samurai Summit, across from Ninja, is the Orient Express, an air-conditioned tram that takes guests from there to the central plaza of Six Flags without having to walk back down the steep hill that takes you up to Samurai Summit. It was the best way to get back down since we were beginning to run out of time, with it being 10 minutes to 5, and the park closing at 6.

The Orient Express has two trams, operated by the same cable, and when one tram goes down the hill, the other goes up to the Samurai Summit station, and then they reverse. It's not long to wait for a tram, and it was a relief to sit for a little bit. My feet don't hurt like they used to before I lost all that weight, but the day began to wear on me. Not sleepy just then, but tiredness began to settle in all my joints. There was still more to do, since Meridith wanted to ride Colossus, and I had d promised that I would go on it with her.

To get to Goliath, you walk past the Magic Moments Theater building, which is used about as much as the Golden Bear Theatre, and there's the entrance for Colossus. Then you weave through where longer lines would be until you reach the loading station. They were running two trains, so it wasn't long to wait for ours, and it was when our train bolted out of the station that I realized that Colossus is the father, and Apocalypse is the son. Colossus races up the first lift hill, and when I saw the steep drop, I said "Oh shit!" out loud. This was harrowing. It jerks you around so much, up one hill, down one hill, up one hill, down one hill, that you don't have a chance to breathe for even a second. Then there's another lift hill and you drop way down yet again. It's said that the Colossus trains on both sides (There was an empty loading station across from ours) were used years ago to race each other, and during Magic Mountain's Halloween festivities, the trains run backward. I still shudder at the thought of that.

After I knew it was over by Meridith no longer pressing herself into my shoulder and screaming with her eyes shut tight, as she did on Apocalypse for equally good reason, I felt a bit of a headache, which went away as I regained my balance after we got off. I told Meridith that I was done with rollercoasters, and I mean it. I can't do this anymore. Riding the wooden Hurricane rollercoaster 19 times in one night at Boomers in Dania Beach was easy because I was in my teens. It was also easy to ride Space Mountain at the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World in 2000 after eating an entire turkey leg because I was in my teens. In March, I'll be two years away from 30. I know there are some daredevils well older than me, and rollercoaster enthusiasts I've seen at various websites, including themeparkreview.com, who probably had this love instilled in them at a young age. Reading I did. Movies I did. Aviation I did. Not rollercoasters. I'd be fine with never riding another one again if not for the Desperado in Primm, Nevada, one of the first things you see after the state line in that complex of three casinos and an outlet mall, which I'll ride for home state pride, and the taxicab rollercoaster at New York-New York. But other than those two, I'm finished. At least with Superman: Escape from Krypton, it was just one tall curve and then back down. I know there are easier rollercoasters and I've been on them, but I've lost my interest. Better that my time with all that is replaced with more books and more writing, and probably more Galaga too.

On the way back to the front gate, Mom called Meridith and told her that she and Dad were at the Cyber Cafe and they had already gotten me my pumpkin pie. See, pumpkin pie, butterscotch anything, types of pasta, those are other fine replacements for my interest in rollercoasters, especially with pumpkin pie being my favorite kind. And after the pie we had had at Thanksgiving that we bought frozen from Walmart that had to be baked, I was looking for one far better. When we got to the table where Mom and Dad were sitting outside the Cyber Cafe (with all the computers inside in use, of course), and I got a plastic spoon from inside, I found the pumpkin pie I had wanted for so long. The pumpkin, the spices, the sugar, all melded so perfectly. It was a welcome comfort after the physical turmoil of Colossus, but most of all, it was amazing to me to find this here. I can understand the funnel cakes being so good since they make them on-site, but where would they make a pumpkin pie? They have each slice in individual clear plastic containers, so maybe it's brought in from somewhere else. I really want to know where that "somewhere else" is, and I've just gotten the idea to e-mail the park and see if anyone knows. There are a lot of things worth living for, and that pumpkin pie is close to the top of my list.

We ordered another slice to take home for Mom and I to share, and I told Mom that I decided not to ride Ninja again because first of all, we were already away from Samurai Summit and I didn't want to hike up there again, plus the Orient Express eats up more time and I wanted to make sure I got my Superman t-shirts and anything else Superman related that looked interesting to me. Plus I told her about keeping it at 7 times in honor of Las Vegas, and because the appeal of Ninja to me is gliding past those trees. At nighttime, it doesn't have the same effect. You're just gliding through darkness, and the trees are just outlines of something.

Walking through the main souvenir shop in the central plaza was an immense pleasure. A tinier crowd this time, and I found two Superman shirts, one in a can, and another with the Six Flags name under the image of Superman. Others were comic book covers and too specific for me. I like a general Superman on my t-shirts, open to all possibilities.

While they waited for us when we were on Colossus, Mom and Dad picked up the pickle and the school bus from package pickup at the Looney Tunes Superstore. On the way out, I went into that store to find a relatively unscratched red Superman cup (Has a clear plastic mold of Superman on the left and the right), since the ones in the main souvenir shop looked terrible, more scratched up than is worth buying just to have Superman. Most in the Looney Tunes store were no better, but I did find one that didn't look so bad, and I wanted a spare.

So that was it. All that was left to do after leaving the park was stopping at Grand Panda to pick up the beef chow fun that Dad had ordered for dinner, and at Chronic Tacos for Meridith and I to get what we and Mom wanted. I was still thinking of a chicken and cheese quesadilla when we walked in, but breakfast items are served all day there, and I spotted a picture of a breakfast quesadilla with cheese, eggs, potatoes, and veggie, chorizo, or machaca, which is shredded beef, grilled onions, and tomatoes. I chose chorizo and my god, not only was it filling, but this was what every quesadilla needs to be: Hearty, confident in its combination, and offering up so much good stuff in every bite. Taking our orders home for dinner was perfect because not only were we worn out from the day, but I preferred to be at home, enjoying my quesadilla at my own pace. I don't eat as fast as I used to, but rare is the time that I slow down for something, and this was it. Between the french fries, the pumpkin pie and this, the meaning of life to me seems to be pure pleasure in whatever you love and savoring every moment you have it. The next time we go to Chronic Tacos, that quesadilla is mine again.

Going back to the question that has been part of the title for three entries, I think it would have been better if I had gotten a season pass. When I was in line with my Superman t-shirts and a small Superman desk light I found, there were three people in front of me who were from somewhere else, because the guy at the register told them to have a nice flight back. I was surprised that people venture as far as here, what with Los Angeles, and Anaheim containing Disneyland. But I understand it because perhaps they wanted a different perspective of this region. People watching alone would have made a season pass worth it. A lot to observe and be entertained by, and a lot to write about. A chance to continually explore a different world, to just sometimes watch rollercoasters in motion.

I can't go for a season pass now. Last year was better because though our situation was fluid like it is now, I didn't feel that drive for movement like I do now. Not that I didn't want to leave for home this year, but it felt like things had to take more time to develop. Having passed in August our eighth year of living here, I've become much more antsy. A season pass wouldn't work because it'd be an all-the-time reminder that we're still here. It's not just about having a place to live; it's about where you live, where you're happy. For a final time, though, this was the right feeling. Casual, absorbing everything that I've loved about Magic Mountain, and leaving with a smile. That was the way to do it.

Day 2, Part 2 of a Four-Week Pleasure Cruise: Would It Have Been Better If...?

During my french fry reverie, oblivious to the crowds passing across from me away from Goliath, and to the booming noise of the one running Superman: Escape from Krypton train, my cell phone buzzed. It was Meridith, saying that she, Mom and Dad were at the souvenir shop across from the Golden Bear Theatre, and they were still selling Thomas the Tank Engine items, this time for 75%, way up from half off when we went to that shop last year. Upon Six Flags giving up its licensing for Terminator and Thomas the Tank Engine, the Terminator rollercoaster became Apocalypse, and Thomas Town, which had Thomas the Tank Engine as a train kids could ride, became Whistlestop Park, the most generic-looking train station you will ever see anywhere. Six Flags is not good at in-house creativity, also evidenced by the pre-show videos passed by on the way to the Apocalypse loading station. More on that fresh hell later.

After finishing the fries, collecting the unused mustard packets (and there were many, since I'm always overzealous for mustard), and putting them back in the container behind the front counter, through the open window, I began walking past the food court, past Goliath, toward the Golden Bear Theatre.

The problem with this particular shop is that if it's doors aren't open, you miss it completely, pass right by it. The double doors were open this time, yet I still didn't notice it. I thought it was further up than where it was, and called Meridith to ask where the heck I had to go. She told me not past the arcade, I turned around, walked past the huge fake tree that you can walk through into Looney Tunes World, and saw Dad standing in front of the shop. I went in, saw the Thomas the Tank Engine toys still unclaimed, and noticed that the park's also still trying to get rid of Superman: The Escape t-shirts, which could be collectors' items if the ride hadn't been so rickety toward the end of its operation.

I also looked at the Batman, Superman and Green Lantern merchandise on display (The latter because of the opening of the Green Lantern: First Flight rollercoaster in the D.C. Universe section of the park), and then spotted a three-tiered metal display case full of toy cars, including fire trucks and school buses. I have an aversion to police and fire vehicles because they're fairly typical of any community, expected, and therefore not really all that unique to my working vehicles collection. I wanted the school bus, though, picked one up, determined that all the parts were intact, and paid for it at the counter.

One of the things to love at Magic Mountain as a once-in-a-great-while visitor is that they have package pickup, which means you can have your purchases sent to the Looney Tunes store right near the entrance and exit gates of the park, and pick them up later, though not until after 3 p.m. And that's what I did: I had a toy school bus sent over there to pick up later.

After Mom and Meridith had looked around, and determined that we had enough toy Thomas trains for our dog Tigger that we bought during our visit last year, we walked to Cyclone Bay, which most visitors don't seem to bother checking out unless they're there to ride Apocalypse, or drive go-karts, or try bungee jumping. There's also carnival-style games that require little effort, such as one you pay $5 for to hit a round metal platform with a mallet to try to make the bell ring at the top. You do that twice, and then you can pick any prize that they have there. Meridith did it and choose a Tweety cape for Mom that she had been eyeing for her last year.

Then came hell. Apocalypse. Meridith wanted to go on it since it was a wooden rollercoaster. You enter under the sign, then walk through a maze of a queue before reaching the first part of the building that has a pre-show video running of people under attack by some vicious force, and psyching themselves up to defend themselves and their families against it, but it's not really clear what it is, and, at this point in its operation after switching from being a Terminator rollercoaster to this, which required new pre-show videos to be shot, no one really cares. No one is required to watch the pre-show video. Once you're allowed in (We had to wait a few minutes while the small crowd in front of us cycled through the building), you just walk past those monitors and loud noises emanating from the sound system, pass through another room that used to have the top half of Terminator robot bodies, ignore another flat-screen monitor with more of that pre-show video, and then walk up a set of stairs to the loading station for the ride, choosing which "sector" you want to be in, meaning which part of the ride vehicle.

Also here, the ride vehicle currently in use rushes overhead and the screams are LOUD. I wish I had taken that as a clue to what I was getting into, because Apocalypse has major anger-management issues. You speed to the first lift hill, go swiftly up it, and then zoom right down and the speed never lets up. It's vicious. There's one really wide turn that's hell to go through, and there's also the turns that go through narrow wooden tunnels that let thin shafts of light through. It leaves you extremely shaken up.

After we got off and walked out of the Apocalypse area, I told Meridith that Apocalypse is one rollercoaster that could use some serious therapy to smooth out whatever makes it pissed off at the world. It should be torn down to make way for something different, but considering the major cost likely involved in building the thing, they're probably going to keep it. To me, it's a waste of space, but I guess it appeals to thrill-seekers much younger than me. Even when I was that young a decade ago, I didn't go for that kind of rollercoaster. I was satisfied and happy enough with the Hurricane rollercoaster at Boomers in Dania Beach, Florida, which closed a few months ago. That was a wooden rollercoaster too but it wasn't as abusive as Apocalypse. It was fast, but it didn't jolt you, and going down those short hills was pure sugar for the pleasure center of the brain.

After leaving the Apocalypse area, we found that Dad had gone on ahead of us and was in the Coaster Candy Company shop, where truffles are sold at the counter, and there's displays of various candy, including huge lollipops that are actually holders for 12 much smaller lollipops. M&Ms are prominently featured, and there's also bags of candy with the Coaster Candy Company label on them, most of it brittle, including peanut and cashew. What caught my eye was almond brittle, I was thinking of getting it, and I have no idea what stopped me. My attention was focused on getting a quesadilla at Los Cuates Mexican Grill nearby. As Mom and Meridith looked over the chocolates at the counter, and Meridith found a large chipotle-accented pickle in a pouch, I decided to go over there and get my quesadilla, but after standing in line for a few minutes, I had a closer look in the kitchen, and it didn't look all that great. Not that it wasn't safely made, but it didn't look like my kind of quesadilla.

After Mom, Dad and Meridith came out of the candy store, Meridith told me she had the pickle pouch sent for package pickup. Meridith's always been one to do the most wonderfully weird things, and this was one of them. A school bus and a pickle at package pickup. I still smile at that.

Dad remembered that Guillermo, one of the teachers at his school, works part-time at the Mexican food counter in the food court building near Goliath, so we trekked over here, walking under the part of the Superman track, that shattering noise out and about again, and Mom covered her ears as we walked under it. We got to the food court, and no Guillermo, as well as no quesadillas. Just burritos. Then, Mom decided on something better: Because of my generosity in buying the toys that we donated to get the free tickets, we'd stop at Chronic Tacos to pick up dinner on the way home. This meant a guaranteed great quesadilla for me, and I was thinking about a chicken-and-cheese one.

We crossed the courtyard near which is a three-point basket contest setup with prizes such as jerseys, and finally went into DC Universe for the roasted corn that we all worship. But first, The Flash: Speed Force, in which you sit in connected vehicles that spin around and around and around, the G-forces growing and pressing you against the left side of your vehicle. It used to be Atom Smasher back when the area was called Gotham City Backlot, and the two rides at the front (including what is now called Wonder Woman's Golden Lasso of Truth) were themed to Looney Tunes. It looks a lot better now with the DC Comics theming, brighter, with much more to see, and ever since refurbishing the Flash ride, it's a lot smoother.

The roasted corn stand was remodeled and expanded, and is now called Kent Farms, after Clark Kent and his earth parents. There's a large oven on the right side, the top door of which can be opened, revealing a revolving rack of corn in their husks, the ends of the husks blackened. The person behind the counter tears off the husk, and it's a beautiful, slightly crunchy, oh-so-good sight, especially when the corn is wrapped in paper, the majority of it dipped in butter, and many options with which to season it, including lemon-pepper seasoning, salt, pepper, barbecue seasoning (That one was new to me), as much as you want.

We were behind someone ordering, and the guy behind the counter opened the lid of a rectangular storage fridge, putting something on the corn, but I couldn't tell what. All I cared about at that moment was that the lemon-pepper seasoning was on the side counter and I needed it right away. Once we got our corn, and Meridith went to find out what Dad wanted on his (At the circular table we found with the Superman logo on it, across from Green Lantern: First Flight, so we got to watch the craziness of the spinning double seating), that's exactly where I went, but first surprised to find barbecue seasoning, and suddenly conflicted. Did I want lemon-pepper seasoning all over my corn this time? How much barbecue seasoning? I soon decided on half-and-half by the time Meridith came back and told me that Dad wanted seasoning salt and pepper on his, and Mom wanted part lemon-pepper, part barbecue seasoning. Meridith had lemon-pepper, and became very full by the time she was done with her corn, and I decided I wanted another.

After deciding to get one for Dad too (When he looks like he wants something, he always says "No, I don't want it," though I have no idea why and I don't have ample time in my world to analyze that one), I asked the guy at the counter what it was he dipped into for those other customers, and he said it was parmesan cheese. The kind you shake out of the container onto pizza and pasta, and what was going to make Meridith's jaw drop, because after she had seen parmesan cheese on roasted corn on some kind of food truck show, she wanted it, and said that if this roasted corn stand had parmesan cheese, she'd dump it all over her corn, give back the container, and say that they ran out and to refill it, after which she'd do it again.

The lemon-pepper seasoning wasn't as appealing to me now as it had been last year, so I asked for parmesan cheese on my corn. The guy poured it on, I asked him how much he was able to put on, and he replied, "As much as you want." I'm not as greedy as Meridith would be in such a situation (Though her greed is justified since she loves cheese as much as I love books), so I asked for it to the end of the corn and that was it. After I got back to our table, I showed Meridith what I had found, she asked shocked questions about where it was, and I let her have as much as she wanted, which wasn't much, since she was full.

And oh god was it wonderful! The roasted corn was still hot enough that the sprinkle parmesan cheese melted on it and in between the kernels, and while I knew that the parmesan cheese had not been available at the roasted corn stand's previous incarnation, I wish it had been, because I would have gone for this every time. Quite fitting for a final visit to Magic Mountain to discover the really good stuff. Only when we're getting ready to move do we get the nice things. It happened in Florida too. That's not to say that Florida was an awful state to live in (I will forever love it for growing up partly at Walt Disney World, and to be a dreamer where dreamers are always welcome), but we'd always find what hadn't been apparent when we'd lived in a particular area for a few years.

It was beginning to get dark, and I told Meridith I wanted her to have a picture in front of the Superman: Escape from Krypton logo before nightfall. We all trekked up the steep hill leading to Samurai Summit, which took longer for Mom and Dad, so Meridith and I hustled up the hill, and reached the Superman area. There were kids climbing on the fake ice crystals directly underneath the sign, where I wanted her to stand, so she stood in front of one of the ice crystals, almost under the Superman sign. I took a picture with her cell phone camera, and then she stood next to one of the red S logos which are on either side of the area in front of the ride. Then a picture of the huge "S" on the ground, and we were done. Time for the Sky Tower.

This time, it was getting darker when we got to the Sky Tower, where the elevator ride up takes 5-6 minutes, and this was the first time we had been up there at dusk. It has always been in the daytime, bright enough to see absolutely everything throughout the park, and there was the symbolism of our time in Santa Clarita hopefully ending. Inside the tower is the museum, which features costumes and maps and props from Magic Mountain in decades' past, including a time where there were many shows, such as a dolphin show, animal show, and many comedy shows. Had they kept all that, it would be a much better park than it is, more to do for others who don't want to ride rollercoasters all the time.

I looked out all the windows at all the sections of the park, paying special attention to where Ninja was located. If I had had a season pass this year, I would have been able to enjoy this sight all the time, get a different perspective, and see the Santa Clarita Valley differently, at least in location in the distance. My feelings on it wouldn't have changed, but to get a skewed sort of view of it would have helped me tolerate it more.

(I worked again today, and am feeling bushed. Final part of this day tomorrow.)

Day 2, Part 1 of a Four-Week Pleasure Cruise: Would It Have Been Better If...?

The prevalent question during my Saturday at Six Flags Magic Mountain was: Would it have been better if I had gotten a season pass this year, readily able to disconnect myself from this valley? I'm not as incensed by the vapidness and plasticity of Santa Clarita as I used to be because you eventually resign yourself to this being what there is. It'll never change. What once may have been unique in this valley, whatever that might be, was paved over long ago.

Had I gotten the season pass, I wouldn't have needed to ride the rollercoasters all the time, because there is so much else to explore. There's the perpetually empty Golden Bear Theatre, of which I can see a section of the rows of rising benches while walking nearby. There's the front facade, a much smaller stage, with swinging saloon doors, and a reddish curtain behind that, what may have been suitable for comedy acts, or singers, or any other kind of act that the park used to have often a few decades ago, but no more. The rollercoasters will suffice.

There's also the trees all around, a lot to look at. Not only those that zoom by while riding Ninja, but also the ones you see while you walk up Samurai Summit and a relative nature-centered stretch of them while walking to the stairs that lead to just under the loading station of Tatsu where you can watch the trains being dispatched. It's also a shortcut to Ninja without having to walk the steep Samurai Summit hill. If you ever walk that hill, don't trip. You'll just keep rolling.

I stopped a few times on my way to those stairs, just looking at those thick and thin trees, thinking that I might be a better writer if I had had that scenery around me as often as I wanted, whenever the park was open. I felt completely at peace there, finding it remarkable that the only thing Six Flags Magic Mountain shares with the Santa Clarita Valley is its Valencia designation. That's part of its address, but that's it. No plasticity. Nothing shallow. What you see is what you get, from the cracks in the sidewalk, to Superman: Escape from Krypton running one track and train, and only later upon becoming more crowded, running both tracks and trains. It's a welcome change from when the previous Superman: The Escape used to run only one train and the adjacent track was used for storage. Back then, those trains were the most rickety things you could ever ride in an amusement park. Fortunately, times change.

After Mom, Dad, Meridith and I had given the toys over to the Toys for Tots toy drive, gotten our tickets, and walked through the metal detectors, the park gates opened (10:30 a.m. exactly) and Meridith wanted her funnel cake right away at the bakery right near the gate. I had had breakfast before we left, and so I began my trek to Ninja, first with a detour at the biggest souvenir shop near the main gates to get a Superman cape. Last year, I wore a Batman cape just because it was a cape and who wouldn't want to be a superhero for a day? My deepening interest in Superman in recent weeks compelled me to get the right cape this time, and $10 immediately went to Magic Mountain without hesitation. It was apparently a cape that played music if you pushed a button on it, but I noticed no button and nothing slightly bulky to indicate one. I thought that the paper tag that indicated that there was music was just put there for no reason at all. Maybe a mistake in the packing, but there was the same tag on the other Superman capes in the same section. Logic didn't apply at this moment because I just wanted to get to Ninja.

On the path to the shortcut of stairs past Tatsu and into Samurai Summit, I saw that Viper looked empty. No line jutting out on the stairs leading up to the loading station. One more time then. One more time so I could say goodbye.

Viper is a rollercoaster that's secure with itself. It has two vertical loops, a corkscrew toward the end, and it takes all of this in stride. The ride up the hill before the first major dip is easygoing, and even if you're toward the back, where it's expected to go faster because the cars in front of you have already gone over it, there's still that one moment of calm for all before the speed begins. Yet, it's not a frightening oh god-oh-god-please-make-it-stop-or-just-pluck-me-from-this-earth-so-I-don't-have-to-suffer-through-this-anymore speed, not like the hell I experienced twice, mid-afternoon and early evening. Going through the vertical loops is like gliding through an intersection. It doesn't seem that way when you're watching it from the ground, but it has that effect up there. This rollercoaster's just glad to have your time and if you want to go on it, it'll be here. I loved it for a few years because it was honest about what it was. Still is, but my tastes changed.

After the ride ended back in the loading station, I got out, gave it a farewell pat, and that was it. On to Ninja.

While walking to the shortcut to Samurai Summit, I thought about the season pass question, and it would have been nice to have one just because I would have been able to go on Ninja as many times as I wanted. I love Ninja because, as a suspended rollercoaster, it gives off a kind-of, sort-of effect of gliding through a forest. Tatsu gives the full effect of flying, but I could never do it like that, facing downward. All I need is to pass the trees, not look down on them.

As if it was apparent why I was there, I came to a completely empty loading station. I was the only one on the train for my first ride. No screaming from fellow riders. Just me rushing past the trees, enjoying that cold breeze coming off the waters of Jetstream, a water ride that Ninja seems to barely pass right over.

All in all, I rode Ninja seven times in a row, never screaming like the other riders, because I know it so well. I know where the two tight G-Force-laden turns are that trip the same pleasure center in the brain that produces the orgasm. I look forward to those every time, though strangely, those are the ones that evoke screams from fellow riders. After the seventh time, I needed a break, intending to go back on later in the day.

I needed my legs back, and definitely a restroom. I found it near Superman: Escape from Krypton, went quickly, and discovered that it didn't look like much of a line for Superman. This ride shoots you out of the loading station at 100mph, up the tower, and then back down, simulating the storyline of the infant Kal-El escaping from the exploding planet Krypton. Oh, and the ride vehicles launch backwards, so once you get to the highest point on the tower, you're looking down. Way down, before the vehicle speeds down and back into the station. This is also the loudest ride in the park, close to being a sonic boom without the actual boom. When you pass under the track while walking from the Colossus County Fair area that houses Goliath, you have to close your ears quickly if you hear it approaching. So yes, I'd do this. For Superman. It would undoubtedly be much safer than its previous incarnation which looked so run down, and without the red-and-blue paint scheme the tower now has. Before, it was white.

A few feet away from the entrance is a huge "S" shield. Across from it, on either side, are benches. With a season pass, I could have sat on one of those benches, watching people head to Superman, the line sometimes getting longer, interested in how long people are willing to wait for a ride that lasts 28 seconds. Strapping yourself in and waiting for the attendants to make sure everyone is strapped in takes longer.

Entering the Superman: Escape from Krypton structure is entering the Fortress of Solitude. That's the theming, with lighting that glows green above the doors that open into the loading station. Four people per row, three in the front row, for a total of 15 people in one vehicle. It takes some serious waiting for this.

I eventually reached the door to the second row, still wearing my Superman cape. Before I continue, I should say that I apparently have this effect on people that makes them want to talk to me. Whether it's by way of a calming presence or just something that they sense about me that they're curious about, I don't know. But it's always been there.

When I wait in a line somewhere, or I'm just walking past people, or supervising kids at La Mesa during brunch and lunch, I'm always listening. I hear snatches of conversations, weighing whether they benefit me in any way, possibly something to include in a book or a play one day, or something to include in a novel if I ever decide to write one. Hence, in those situations, I have become really good at listening without making it seem like I'm listening.

Behind me, two guys and a girl were chatting. I didn't listen much to their conversation, and in fact, I can't remember a thing from it. But my attention perked up when I heard, "Look, a new Superman," a reference to my cape. I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned around, and the guy who had tapped me joked that he had Kryptonite. "Circumcision after birth is a Jewish person's Kryptonite," I joked back. I meant it as if a person got it done long after their birth. Mine was done barely a few days after I arrived.

Then he asked me why Superman, and I told him that Batman doesn't interest me because he's gloomy, depressed, and Gotham City is just gray and joyless, whereas Superman came from a different planet, has to discover who he is and where he fits in, and to me, there's more of a story in that, more to explore. The guy reminded me that Bruce Wayne lost both his parents on the same day, and I jokingly replied, "Eventually, a therapist." We also talked about if Bruce Wayne has any relatives, and I said the only person who comes close to being a relative is Alfred.

The friend of his chimed in occasionally, as good-natured as he was, but I didn't notice much compared to that girl, who must have been his friend's girlfriend. She was incredibly beautiful, with a soft face and demeanor about her, who could easily joke with the guys. Many comments and jokes I made got her smiling, reminding me of Emmy Rossum. Truly, the female sex can surprise you when you're not looking.

When the doors opened and we got into the ride vehicle, she had to put her pocketbook on the other side, and I didn't mind getting up and standing to the side at all. Sitting next to her was an honor, though I didn't let on about it. I'm subtle in my appreciations, not so subtle in my appreciation for a much better restraint system in this new incarnation. This time, the ride vehicle has over-the-shoulder restraints that are very heavy, and therefore a bit of a chore to put down, though very necessary so no one flies out. And once that restraint is resting on you (I was at the end of my row, so there was the added bonus of more protection next to me, like half a box made of fabric and metal, which sounds strange, but is the only way I can think of describing it), you take the seat belt buckle hanging down and insert it into the clasp, which is located right over your crotch. Like I said, excellent protection.

I don't have any fear of looking down 415 feet below me. It only lasts for about four seconds, and the way down is smooth. No jerks, no curves. I agreeably felt the wind rushing past me, and then the slowdown into the station, and that was it.

I didn't make a new set of friends with those three. It was one of those conversations that only lasts as long as you're waiting. Lucky guy with that girl. I could also tell that they were avid readers, not only by that same guy noticing my t-shirt, which says, "All You Need is Books," and commenting, "So true, and so many problems could be avoided if that were commonplace." Comments on wars and presidents inevitably followed. Plus, the girl obviously had a vast collection of books where she lives. There's just that look, sharpened, amused, passionate. She had it.

Next, I found out that Mom, Dad and Meridith were heading for Cyclone Bay, where there's bungee jumping ($35 for a single person, $25 for double, $20 for three people, who all can fit in one harness), go karts, and a few lost-looking carnival games, including throwing something into the hole of a vase that turns out to be very far away (It always seems that way), and hitting the circular platform with the mallet to try to make the bell ring.

I wasn't going to start out for Cyclone Bay so fast. I was hungry, and I needed french fries, one reason I had been excited about this day. There's nothing particularly remarkable about the fries served up at the Fresh-Cut Fries stand in Colossus County Fair plaza, but it's just that they're there, served nacho style with cheese and salsa and jalapenos, or spicier styles, or plain, that makes them appealing.

I ordered the half-pound of regular fries, not minding paying $5.29, and when the guy at the counter put ketchup packets on top of the fries, I told him I didn't need them, because there were mustard packets sitting there. I grabbed a handful, went to a table next to the stand and sat down, focused solely on my fries. I opened packet after packet of mustard to squirt on the fries, made a mess of a few packets, wiped the mess off the table, and dove in.

When I'm eating something I really like, it's only me and the food, as it was with these fries. A steady stream of people were walking out of Colossus County plaza across from me, and I hardly noticed. I had french fries and that's all that mattered. And the mustard. Rarely do I eat fries without mustard; well, fries that aren't from McDonald's or In-N-Out.

Before reaching the french fry stand, I stopped at the food stands at Water Tower Plaza, across from the Gold Rusher rollercoaster, curious about if they sold french fries as well, and whatever else was there. In the order window was an ad for pumpkin pie, $3.25 a slice. Pumpkin pie is my favorite, so I immediately wanted it (especially since the frozen pumpkin pie we put in the oven for Thanksgiving was shoddy, and only mildly good after being refrigerated), but not before I had my fries. I'd have my fries first, and then walk back for pumpkin pie.

(More tomorrow. I was a working man today and I'm a working man again tomorrow, with a shot at a full night's sleep tonight instead of the four and a half hours I got before the automated sub system called with the job at 7 this morning.)

A Friday with Pay and Then Rollercoasters

This morning was a surprise. I went to bed toward 3, completely failing at trying to get to bed much earlier on Wednesday night and Thursday night so I could ease into getting up early tomorrow morning for Six Flags Magic Mountain.

Mom woke me up at 10 minutes before 6. John, the head campus supervisor, put a call into the automated sub system, which called me. He needed a sub. Did I want the job?

I always want the job, no matter who I'm subbing for, because there's money. I need money. I love money. I need to let my savings account rise more, and I love buying books (at least until Henderson, when I'll have a library to go to again).

I wish John had decided this last night so I could have had time to get lunch ready and to get to bed earlier. That's not how this always works, though, so I went to the dining room table to get Lady Luck's Map of Vegas by Barbara Samuel (I finished The Goddesses of Kitchen Avenue a little after 1 this morning), went back to my room, saw that my clock said 5:52, and got back into bed for a few minutes. I was fully awake, but knew that I have to take it easy today. I'll do the job as professionally as I always do (I'm at the school right now), but I'll walk around the campus a little less during the class periods when there's not any calls to answer on the radio. I need my exercise, and I'll get that, but I also need to be sharp for the brunch and lunch periods, supervising the kids, since I'll be walking around. It's not like subbing for Alex and Carmen, standing near the lunch lines, making sure no one cuts in at the front of the line.

I didn't open Lady Luck's Map of Vegas. I just lay there wondering how I was going to make it through the day on little sleep, but I remembered that I had slept nine hours the previous day, and when I'm at home during the school week, I do a few chores after I get up, then spend my time on the couch reading, as I did yesterday. So there's not a whole lot of exertion there. That serves me well today.

I looked over at the clock again, saw that it was 6, and thought about if I should wait to take a shower after I got home, which actually wouldn't be until after we come home from school, pick up Meridith, go to $5 Friday at Pavilions (in which many items are $5 each, including fried chicken this week), and go home again. That wasn't going to work. It was time to just get it done. I don't think I would be able to think about one after all that activity, and I needed one.

What a relief a shower is when you're trying to wake up. It sets up a good mood for the rest of the day. I don't consume caffeine anymore, so I needed this.

During the shower, I remembered that today is the holiday luncheon for faculty and staff in the library. No need to make lunch to bring with me. Just three oatmeal raisin granola bars and three bottles of Arrowhead water. I had breakfast before Dad and I left the house. I hope for egg nog during this luncheon, but I doubt it. That reminds me that I still want my one carton of regular egg nog for the year. I've been drinking Silk Nog occasionally from the end of October to now, and I'll only partake of regular egg nog once this year. Copious amounts of regular egg nog, even the low-fat kind, is part of what got me fat over the years. Not again. Total moderation.

John's hours are 8:30-4:30, and even though it's later than I usually work, I'm very happy with it. 8 hours instead of 6. Money earned, and then Six Flags Magic Mountain tomorrow. It works out perfectly because I'll definitely crash later tonight and then be up by 7:30 or 8 tomorrow morning, well ahead of 10:30 when the park opens. We're all going anyway, not just Meridith and I, so we'll need to find a parking spot too. The weather is going to be warmer tomorrow, which means I can wear my "All You Need is Books" t-shirt (http://www.unshelved.com/store/Shirts/AllYouNeedIsBooks) with a white t-shirt underneath and a jacket.

So now I can buy my slightly overpriced Superman t-shirt tomorrow without feeling like I'm pushing my financial limit. And if they have a t-shirt that actually has the Ninja rollercoaster on it and not just an outline of a section of the park (as it is with the Ninja t-shirt I already have), I'll grab that too.

I just remembered that the Sky Tower Museum is open as well, in which you take an elevator up that orange tower to the first floor (The second floor is for storage, I imagine, though I heard rumors that there's a kitchen up there too) and there's memorabilia from decades past at Magic Mountain, in glass cases, on hangers, and even an old ride vehicle from one rollercoaster and a seat from another. It's a tradition of sorts for all of us, and before that, when that floor was entirely devoid of anything, we'd just go up there to see the view of the Santa Clarita Valley, which looks far better than the reality. We'll still do that, because that's really the main reason to go up there, and for me to see the Ninja track obscured by trees.

It's just like our tradition to go on "It's a Small World" together whenever we go to Disneyland, though that's not likely to happen again before we move because those tickets are so damn expensive now. When we went to Walt Disney World every weekend when I was a tyke, we went on "It's a Small World" often, and that carried over to when we visited the Magic Kingdom once in a while when we lived in South Florida years later. (Never EPCOT or then-Disney-MGM Studios. Magic Kingdom had enough for all of us, including Tomorrowland for me with Space Mountain (my favorite attraction there), Tomorrowland Transit Authority, and Walt Disney's Carousel of Progress. I only needed those, and the arcade next to Space Mountain, and I stayed there the entire day.)

Work is good, especially this work which lets me read at lunch, completely unperturbed. With Magic Mountain tomorrow, it's even nicer.

(Addendum at 8:11 a.m.: Dad came back from the office before going coffee-hunting to tell me that I have Alex's hours of 9:30-3:30. On days when John is absent, Alex takes his hours. I'm not disappointed, because 6 hours is better than no hours. Plus, that gives me an hour to lay on the couch upstairs in the teachers' lounge and rest up and read before I have to start. I think I'll be better, more awake than I thought I'd be when we got here.)

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 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.