(Names have been altered to maintain anonymity for the guilty)
Thursday night was filled with restlessness as I franticly pack for the week ahead. Jason, a long friend, one of the oldest I know, had just cancelled on me. He was on the fence whether he wanted to come with me on this road trip or not, and I made the executive decision.
“It’s just that I could be working, and I have exams on Monday.”
“Right, I’m not coming back till Tuesday. There, I guess you’re not coming.”
Strange how when all those years I was living down in Orange County or when I moved to L.A., Jason never felt inclined to visit. Now that Bethany is in Irvine all of a sudden he wants to go on a road trip. Too bad he epically failed, which works out for me. I work better on my own.
*
Friday morning, I dragged my feet out the door having checked the locks and double checked the stove to make sure everything was off. I walked my mom’s little dog one last time hoping that I won’t be coming home to a shit filled house.
The five hour trip was desolate scenically, but the landscape of my mind was brimming with colors and images of days long gone. Initially, I had Social Intelligence on audio compact disc filling the morning silence. Strange choice, but I was trying to learn new things daily, as oppose to disintegrating into complete ignorance. It’s a strange feeling after college, that I can feel myself getting dumber. Ironically, I’m sure I consumed much more alcohol in college as oppose to now.
It followed with a few hours of rocking out to music; of notice were some Gwen Stefani tracks, the Orange County Girl herself. As I entered the charted once vestal maiden lips of Los Angeles, now just a paid and laid asphalt entryway, the main California artery that is Interstate 5, “Californication” by The Red Hot Chili Peppers was playing.
Driving to Los Angeles from the Bay Area, you first enter The Valley. Which is an L.A. term for the buffer that separates homo sapiens superior and homo sapiens. Which is which and who belongs where remain matters of argument, but needless to say, the buffer exists. The Valley invokes many memories of late night shenanigans. At its center is Six Flags Theme Park, a giant reminder of the world I left behind, of a world I left with unexplored territory. There were so many things left unsaid and so many things left undone.
I instantly remember and regret never having said goodbye correctly to Mary-Joe. Mary and Joe were two people equating to one couple, and everyone just got to calling them Mary-Joe for short. They were cool in many ways and were the first ones to introduce me to this wayward territory. They were Valley-folk in all its greatness and gravity, as real as people needed to be in the shadow of Hollywood. They were built from “of the earth” people, as oppose to being built on a soundstage from dreams and the magic of light, smoke, and mirrors. Yet even here, the Valley can’t escape completely and come out entirely clean.
It is here you find the porn capital of the world, and it is here that coming is a matter of the bottom line. You inevitably always lose a touch of innocence driving through the Valley. I did a little bit that Friday driving down.
Out of the stereo speakers came “Perfect Situation” by Weezer. They had performed a weekend earlier at San Jose State. I had missed it. This song and two other songs capture the existence of Mary-Joe for me. Their influence and how they’ve touched me is not limited or boiled down and extracted into these three songs. It’s just that these three carry their essence to this day, and with luck, they probably always will. The story goes, “Perfect Situation” played on the radio one night as Joe drove us back home to our apartment from some club out in Hollywood. Mary was slightly drunk in the passenger seat, and I was slightly more so in the back seat. We sang every line and wallowed every woe the whole way home.
Another song was “Dani California”, by the Red Hot Chili Peppers (almost anything by them reminds me of Mary-Joe really, but this song does so particularly). Mary-Joe towards the end of our lease brought back to the apartment a dog they named Dani. Dani was a black Labrador who was sick, and Mary-Joe nursed the poor creature back to good health. They were really good at that.
The last and most important song is Champagne Supernova, by Oasis. I can still hear Mary’s raspy voice pouring out as Joe strummed his bass guitar. We’d all have no doubt been drinking, and found ourselves in a circle singing again. There was always an amazing high while we mostly likely butchered this beautiful song. Even now, when I play the song, if I close my eyes, I can here them, Mary-Joe, raspy voice and all.
Between the Valley and L.A., L.A. lays Sunset Boulevard. I’m sure many people have thought of the irony as they sat there waiting for the 405 to move. Driving that stretch of the 405 was driving home for two years. It tugged at the heart strings as I exited Sunset at the cusp of the 405 traffic. I was back in Westwood, and the first leg of my journey was complete or so I thought.
*
There’s a place in Westwood called HQ. It’s changed location throughout the years, and consequently its nature has changed somewhat. What happens is that several friends move in together, usually it takes two, but somehow it ends up being three or more. We get a place, split rent, and live together. This becomes headquarters or HQ for short. Friends move in and out, locations and the names on the lease changes, but I know there will always be an HQ in Westwood or L.A. in one form or another. That Friday, I knew there was a place in Westwood for me, I called anyway.
“Hey, Audrey. Yeah, I’m in town. Are you around?”
“I’m at the apartment.”
“Can I swing by? I need a place to crash tonight.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Thanks, I’ll be by in a bit.”
And so I came, and soon after we, Audrey, Kitty, and myself, found our way to Sawtelle Street. Over old stomping grounds at Hurry Curry, we reconnected. The songs elude me now, but at the time, they were the icing on our diner conversation. Hurry Curry had some interesting beats.
Audrey and Kitty, like Mary-Joe hold special places in my heart too. Before, Dani, before the collapse of HQ Prime, before the falling out of Mary and she who will not be named, I found myself thrown into a pit with several wayward souls. Together we found our way out, but in the process, we fused an ever lasting bond. Audrey and Kitty were two of these wayward souls that I welcomed into HQ. I fed them as best I could, and saw to it that their respective vices were seen too. They were younger but not in the way I was older but not. We watched movies on projector and laughed ourselves to sleep.
There, before me, I see the changes in them. The music has changed somewhat, and they’re now older. Not the graying older, or the degradation of time older by any means. It was older in the lost of innocence. It was older in the lost of friends who moved on and those that are left behind. I had seen it in myself, and now I saw it in them. It pains me, but I couldn’t stop time and stop them from growing up. Not that we were all grown up, talking about silly things there at Hurry Curry, just more so.
“Is it hot in here? Or is it just my curry?” was a button that held the evening’s coat tail in place. The music, the warm curry and chicken cutlet, the familiar faces and places, they compounded, and it was music. It wasn’t completely the same songs from our yester years, though there were familiar repeats, there were some new songs for better or worst.
Back at HQ, we fell routinely into our respective spots on the lounge couch. We idled in front of the television watching our favorite shows from behind our laptops. I didn’t bring mine, because I wanted to be in the here and now to take in as much of it as I possibly could.
It was like old times, and just like old times, just when I thought the evening was winding down, we head out for a drive.
Kitty had a birthday party to go to, so it was just me and Audrey. What was supposed to be a simple car swap, drive up to Audrey’s parent’s place in Valencia to switch cars, wasn’t that simple.
At Audrey’s parent’s house, I sat as a spectator observing and absorbing. Her parents always amused me as I can see and have known Audrey for quite sometime. I was observing the science and mystery of development, parents and there affects on children. It’s like Mr. Smith said, “Parent’s, they just don’t understand.”
I got to figuring as I inevitably do, that at one point, as a family and not just limited to Audrey’s, I’m sure all the members played in sync and in accord. There must have been times when the music was harmonious, while at other time it must have been chaos. There must have been down notes and up notes, and like an orchestra, they played onwards together. Just watching a family interact, just on the surface, and just here and the now, it was strange to see that people are a residual bunch. We cannot forget as we hold on to that last note.
Audrey’s Dad’s dog, a variation of a basset, took to me kindly as Audrey paid her visit. For some reason, the dog remembered me as the guy who would pet her if she insisted. I’ve only been to Audrey’s parents place once or twice before. Yet the dog insisted, and I obliged to make her happy. I tickled behind her ears and rubbed her belly. Some would say I’m a sucker for bitches, but in truth, I acquiesce to their needs simply because I know their sweet spots. It makes me happy to make them happy if you will. The rules still did not escape me, simply one: you don’t get between a man and his bitch. So there I was rubbing down a bitch in the man’s own living room, no, that wasn’t awkward at all.
“Calvin, you want some Scotch?”
Triumphantly, I declined Jerry’s offer. Audrey’s older brother Jerry was helping himself to some scotch. After a long drive, and now as I was rubbing down a bitch, I could have definitely used a drink, but that would have been an easy out. No. Pounding scotch was not the answer. I resolved to the situation I was in, trying not to decline too many hospitable offers, and all the while remaining stubbornly and nonchalantly oblivious to any awkwardness whatsoever. Reminding myself that the wagon was definitely worth the trip, I stayed on it despite insecurities urging me onwards with the good times.
As Audrey pulled out of the garage leaving the scotch and the dog, the house and the family, and the whole exchange behind us, I felt relief in staying sober and relief in calling it a night. But the evening wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
In her old civic, Audrey turned on the CD player.
“Let’s see what’s in here.”
If there was a theme for Audrey, the track that came out of the stereo would be it. During the many shenanigans that went down those Westwood nights, it was Audrey driving to this song. We were welcomed fellow journeymen along her trip. To “Knights of Cydonia” by the Muse, there, supposedly as I can neither confirm nor deny, were cars racing around UCLA campus playing Nerf gun hide and seek at midnight. As the backdrop to many a late night Mickie-Dee’s runs or the Sunset Blvd cruises, it was this song. Up and down the PCH it was Audrey’s drive that propelled us on this wavelength. And so began a detour that propelled our night forward. We ended up at a 24 hour Wal-Mart. Ode to days long gone.
Now I understand the arguments against Wal-Mart, but admittedly I am grateful for such a well lit refuge for those insomniac nights. This Friday night in question, had me digging through the $5.00 DVD bargain bins. As if going to Wal-Mart to hunt for bargains wasn’t sad enough, knowing full well how it undercuts the competition in pricing, you’re also reminded of your station in life even further as you dig through unwanted or unsavory DVDs in these bins. Like a kick to the mouth as you scurry about in the mud. There are hidden jewels mind you, but they must be earned. Like making a monkey dance and squeek to earn a treat, we dug and dug bin after bin. It was late night, and like the freaks we were, Audrey and myself dug half attempting to organize these miscellaneous discounted DVDs. Organize, had we actually done so, we would have been there still. With Wal-Mart, there carries a heavy buyers guilt, and because of one Alfred Hitchcock, I was able to assuage away some of it. Still the fact remains, I was slopping around in the mud, and Wal-Mart kicked my teeth in, thanks.
Before returning to Westwood, we stopped by Receda in the Valley to see Mark. I had found out about his accident along the 405 and wanted to pay him a visit. It was the least I could do. The story goes, as he drove home one late night on the 405, somewhere near the Ghetty exit, he lost control as his car flew off the highway and onto an adjacent street, one Sepulveda. There was a sign he bulldozed, a hill he tumbled down and somehow his car still managed to land right side up on the street below. Amazingly, he got out of the car and walked away as it caught fire and went up in flames. In my mind, it was like a Hollywood movie, with loud explosions and all. Lost in the fire was a new iPhone, various personal electronic devices, laptop and such, and what hurt the most was a notebook filled with music Mark and written since junior high. He survived, and that was the important part. I imagined a part of him must have died that night, but rather that than too lose all of Mark.
When Mark and Audrey hang out, inevitably Bob Marley plays in the background. That night in Receda, in the car with windows rolled up, I heard “Buffalo Soldier.” I’m happy to say that I resisted the urge to partake in the exchange between Mark and Audrey, but in a car with windows rolled up, you end up secondhandedly absorbing the positive vibrations friends radiate as they celebrate those special “escaping a near death life experience occasions”.
Afterwards, in Mark’s room, he played for us some sounds he was working on. As a musician, artist, and producer, Mark had a sweet set-up. Guitar cases laid on the floor and leaned against the wall. Sound dampeners lined the walls. His rig had two monitors, some switch board, cross fading equipment, and cool software to produce his sounds. He sampled a song for our listening pleasure. Though it didn’t have a title as far as I knew, the beat and sound was inspiring. It was the song that followed. When everything goes up in flames, keep working and write another song. You can only live in the moment; let that be a life lesson.
As we chilled, Mark answered his ringing cell, a quick replacement flip phone. The night wasn’t going to end just yet. How would we feel about going on a car trip to K-Town?
“I’m cool. I got nothing to do.”
“Yeah, I haven’t seen you in awhile, let’s hang out some more.”
So we drove to K-Town. That’s Korean Town in the heart of Los Angeles to the non-natives. Here, you will find non-English signs, gobbledygook to some, but hidden treasure to others. You’re in another world inside the L.A. microverse. For several blocks, only street signs will help you find your destination, unless you happen to read, write or speak Korean, you’re shit out of luck. It so happened, Mark was one such Korean. Natives managed to find their way navigating such streets after several trial and errors. Somewhere between a native and a non-native, I was once again grateful that Mark was there.
We had to go K-Town to pick up Mark’s girlfriend, Sofia. She was at a bar, club, lounge or some combination there of when we picked her up. She was booking, a term use for having a host that escorted your party from venue to venue. She was also highly buzzed. It was another car swap, as I drove Mark’s rental (his blew up) to a drop point, and he drove Sofia’s car to pick us up. In the backseat again, I watched Sofia describe her evening. Her larger than life mannerism struck my humor bone as Audrey and I sat in the backseat enjoying Sofia’s description of why Brittney Spear’s “Womanizer” was a good song. Sofia continued to share her thoughts regarding our next destination, Mickie-Dee’s. There was the Monopoly event taking place, and being Asian she no doubt had to play and not only play, she had to play to win. This was Mickie-Dee’s Monopoly, and this was serious. If you’re Asian, you understand the nature of gambling. I laughed at the humor and truth of her statements. There was a big smile on my face as Mark drove and Sofia told us what was on her mind. We left behind Hollywood and the 101 in the rear window and found a disappointingly closed Mickie-Dee’s in Receda.
“That’s no bueno Baby. You need to make up for it tomorrow. You have to eat Mickie-Dee’s for breakfast. We need to eat Mi-ckie-Dee’s as much as possible. Oh my god, I’ve eaten Mickie-Dee’s so much already this week. I feel so gordo.”
We ended up at a taco joint, Del something, and Audrey ordered a coke. She spilled it on herself, and capped the evening with another lesson. Sometimes the lid is not secure, and shit spills on you. Wipe yourself up, put a cap on it, and go home. When we reached Mark’s place, Audrey and I said our goodbyes. It was back to Westwood, and it was finally an end to the evening. In one night, I relived many an L.A. adventures. “Knights of Cydonia” played again as the curtains came down on part one of my weekend adventure.
