sw 2 nw by mw

After spending all Saturday making decisions like ‘can I live without this for awhile, or not?’ and then finally calling it done when I heard my voice echo through the house, and going out for one last dinner and what was intended to be like 2 beers at Sonora, which of course turned into more when a couple friends happened in, I got to bed around 1, woke up early, walked the dog, got a coffee and croissant at AJ’s, packed the car in blazing morning heat, said goodbye to Mr. Tibbs, strapped Petunia into the front seat and pulled away with a final glance back at the house, the neighborhood, the trees and lawns, the landmarks, the mountains, the coffee shops, bars, restaurants and stores, all the places I know of home. It was 10am, five hours later than planned, 20 years later than first envisioned, but right on with my history of late departures.

I haven’t overthought this whole moving to Seattle. I may have underthought it a little, but it didn’t seem to need much thought. I’ve been through the decision making process before and this time everything just seemed right. The job, the money, the city, the timing: everything. So I’ve trusted it. I haven’t gotten sad about leaving my friends and family. Maybe Mr. Tibbs dying had something to do with it. That was the saddest thing I’ve ever known, and maybe I’ve just gotten all the mourning out that I have in me. Or maybe because all these people are still alive and I’ll see them again, it doesn’t seem like an ending, just a beginning. It’ll hit me I’m sure in a couple weeks one night when I’m sitting on the floor eating chinese takeout with no music and no tv and the phone hasn’t rung in days. Ok no, that’s not me, that’s some commercial.

At the same time I haven’t gotten overly excited about Seattle yet. I’m happy, for sure, enjoying the planning and the doing, but I haven’t had that Christmas morning feeling. It’s all one step at a time. I know the final result will be great, but there’s been so much to do in preparation, and no time to sit and ponder. And it’s all so surreal. I’ve been there several times before, I know what it looks like, but what will it really be like to live there? Will I get there and realize I can’t leave the life I’ve always known? I need the sun? I can’t take the rain? Have I lived in Phoenix so long that it’s all I can do?

Well, sometimes not overthinking is a good thing. Trust your instinct at this point. I don’t rush foolishly into anything. If it seems right then it must be.

At any rate, the drive across the desert sucked – balls. I took the picture below because it’s the most – no, the only – interesting sight along the way, if you can call it interesting. Little Harquahala Mountain. It’s just familiar to me from so many road trips before as a sign that I’m leaving Arizona. Different shapes of mountains, that’s the only thing that changes on the landscape.

This next picture is shitty but meaningful because it was the first glimpse of ocean out the car window – Ventura. Hooray ocean.

It would be another hour before reaching Santa Barbara. It was good to arrive. It was chilly enough that I was cold in gym shorts and – get this – a wifebeater. I wore one the whole way. Hey, I want to tan while I can. And anyway it’s my new favorite article of clothing. I’m going to wear one every chance I get now. Not really, but you see I never once wore one until January bought me some as a joke I think about a year ago. It’s kind of low class to wear one without something over it, or so I hear. I don’t know, when I see some dude walking around with that and a pair of baggy khaki shorts down to his shins, and white socks up to his shins, and like some Timberland boots and a bandanna down over his eyebrows and a goatee and lots of tattoos, I think he looks kind of bad ass. Is it just me? I’m kidding of course. That would be a vato.

Yeah let me say a little something about other drivers. They all suck. I have yet to come across another car on this trip and think, hey, nice driving there pal. Actually, that’s not true. Today, near San Jose there was some traffic and all of a sudden all the cars in the left lane slammed their brakes and the pickup in front of me drifted onto the shoulder so as to avoid rear-ending the car in front. That’s some solid defensive driving. Good work buddy, wherever you are. The rest of you can stick your tongue up my anus. And no syrup, you must taste my lunch. Wow, gross!

But for reals, what in hell is wrong with people? Arizona drivers, we all know what that’s about. Too old, too many kids in the back, too big an SUV, too oblivious, too self-centered – pick one. It used to be that California drivers were good. Too fast perhaps (if you think there is such a thing) but definitely skilled and attentive. No more. In the past 2 days I’ve seen countless acts of buffoonery committed by cars with California plates. They might as well be Arizonans. But worse than all of them are truckers. They can all fucking die right now as far as I’m concerned. I don’t need my lettuce or flat screen tv or whatever you’re hauling that bad. I’ll go get it myself if it’ll keep you off the road. I’ll say this now, I am not driving too fast (this time). Too fast is 100, or even 90. I’m going 9 over the speed limit at all times, and occasionally people pass me and that’s fine. I get over before they have to hit their brakes. This is what you’re supposed to do. But here’s what truckers do. They’re in the right lane going 60 behind another truck. I’m coming up behind them in the left lane going 80. They pull out in front of me for no apparent reason and with no one behind me. I slam on my brakes and wait as they pass their fucking butt buddy so they can – I don’t know – take turns drafting as some kind of mating ritual before they go hit the glory hole at the next rest stop? And this happened at least 20 times today. Just about every time I came upon two trucks in a row. Am I alone in this?

Ok, calm again. Breathe. Relax. I love long drives, and I hate them. 500 miles a day is not terrible, but it’s about 200 miles more than I want to go. So far I’ve gone about 1020 miles in 15 hours of driving: 7 yesterday, 8 today. That’s an average of 70 mph including stops for gas, food and to let Petunia out. By the way she is strapped in with this little harness for dogs. Today after my one stop (in Salinas) I got back on the road and passed a car I know for sure I had passed a few hours earlier. It was another Subaru with 2 road bikes and 2 surfboards on top. I had stopped for about half an hour. That’s how much time you make up in the left lane? Is that a lot or a little? When you’re driving for 7 or 8 hours what’s another 30 minutes? I don’t know but I am constantly fighting the urge to go faster. Cruise control helps. One time I drove from Davis, CA to home in one stretch stopping only twice and only to fill the tank. It’s 770 miles and I did it in under 10 hours. For the entire first tank of gas I was over 100 mph, early Sunday morning on I-5. In all it saved about 90 minutes, but at terrible risk. I guess I’m saying speeding is not worth it. Right?

Back to yesterday. In Santa Barbara I took Petunia to the first beach she and Tibbs ever set foot on. That was so funny. We had arrived at night and they’d been in the car all day. I led them to the beach and told them to go in the water. They couldn’t see the expanse of ocean. They got scared of the sea foam as it rolled up the beach. In the dark it looks like a long white snake. I threw the ball and they ran into the surf. They’ve loved the ocean ever since. This time the tide was too high and we couldn’t really get onto the sand so we went for a walk on the cliffs and then went to find a hotel. I tried several all in one area near the beach that I’d stayed at before. One was now a rehab clinic. After being told no dogs, no dogs over 25 pounds, no vacancy I took us a couple miles into town and found a Motel 6. Yeah, Motel 6 is absolutely nothing special, but it’s usually the cheapest clean place around, and all of them take dogs. $101 with tax. For that town, not too bad.

I found – what do you know – a brew pub 2 blocks down the street and went over for a late dinner. They had 50-cent ribs so I said ya knoooowwwwww, I’ve been pretty good today with eating. They were boiled. I got 5 at first and then another 15, could only eat 10 and took the rest home to Petunia. Remind me not to eat other people’s bbq. Boiled meat. Does that sound good to anyone? Their IPA was ass too.

This morning I got up around 6:30 and took Petunia out to pee and poo. I noticed 3 white converted trucks with “Eco-Pro” on the side. I don’t know that company but these were clearly biohazard cleanup trucks. Three of them, parked about 6 doors down. Big guys with big blue heavy duty rubber gloves on. I hadn’t been awakened by any shots in the night, only the people upstairs fucking – slow and hard. It sounded like someone was lifting one end of a desk a couple inches off the ground and then dropping it. It lasted all of 2 minutes and got faster at the end. Drunken sex, you can’t hate on that.

I took Petunia to the dog beach to see if we could play fetch. We did, it was good. She carried the ball herself most of the time as we walked along the beach for about 3 miles. She didn’t drink any sea water, I guess because she had drank a little yesterday and thrown it up in the hotel room. I’m sorry: Motel. We got our money’s worth of that place, but not like the poor bastard 6 doors down.
At any rate the beach was kind of interesting. Check this picture…

This is three big trees that have fallen about 50 feet from the cliff above. There were more up there waiting for the next big storm. I guess this was God’s way of saying ‘You grew too close to the edge’. Up close they were kind of cool. Some had moss growing on the trunks where high tide must reach.

This next picture is a live sea lion that was napping about 100 yards from those trees. A lady had warned me that it was there, and would bark at me and Petunia. We walked about 2 miles and never saw it until the walk back, by which time it had fallen asleep like the lazy dirty unbathed hippie that it is.

I got within 10 feet to take the picture. I thought, if this were Jackass what would I do? Go try to spoon with it? Shave my name in its fur? Piss on it? Well, even a sleeping big wild animal can wake up and bite the shit out of you so I let sleeping sea lions lie. Petunia at no point took any interest. She didn’t realize it was an animal at all. She’s more about the fetching of the ball in the sand:

And here, in memory of Mr. Tibbs, is the last picture of him. I took it a couple months ago in the back yard.

We quit the beach and went back to the motel and a mere hour later, about 10:30 we were in the car again. One pathetic note: by now the Eco-Pro trucks were gone. So this means that they cleaned up what we must assume was a bloody mess in less time than it took me to get ready in the morning. This, by the way, is why I’m always late to work. I don’t know what it is, I just fuck around too much. Espresso? Don’t mind if I do. Check email? Sure. Sit outside and listen to the birds chirp? Why not. It’s a new day, unique in its special way, why rush it?

Anyway. Up the 101 to San Jose. Over toward Sacramento to catch I-5. Arrived in Chico in time for dinner. Petunia remembers the yard from 2 years ago when we spent the summer here. Petunia also knew which motel room was ours every time we left it and came back. It’s uncanny. Dogs must have a better sense of smell than we can even imagine. Or some other sense. Better navigational skills than I can understand. We would walk out the door, through the parking lot, down the street a couple blocks to an empty lot where she could go to the bathroom. Then back and she would lead us off the sidewalk into the parking lot, past a dozen doors and then stop at ours and stick her nose in the door jamb. I even tried to test her by continuing past our door but she wouldn’t follow. Tonight we went out to dinner and when we came home she was outside the front door. We had left a gate open by accident and she got out but got scared and waited. She panted for a half hour after we let her back in. That’s what she does when she’s stressed out. Like the whole drive too. And then she ate a whole plate of cookies while no one was looking.

Chico is a great town. A college town. The shining gem of sophistication in the otherwise backwards farming and mountain towns of northern California. Don’t get me wrong, I love northern California a whole lot. I’ve spent a lot of time checking out every part of it. But there’s some bad sets of teeth around here. And where people don’t take care of their teeth, there’s a whole lot of other things wrong too.

Everyone here is getting ready for the big wedding in 3 weeks. My cousin Jake, who is about 22 and grew up in one of those little mountain towns near here, is marrying the girl from high school who turned his life around after he took a big detour a few years ago. Long story short, he has two wonderful twin daughters, a little older than 2, and he has full custody while their mom is hopefully never to be seen again. The wedding is in Sacramento, 250 guests including myself. Should be a lot of fun.