September 4, 2003

  • Bruce drove down to Ventura last Friday.  Brett couldn't get the weekend off, Labor Day being a big fire holiday, so I went along.  Also thumbing a ride was his friend Chad, whom he met in China Town.   Like Kevvie, Chad goes to S.F. state and would like to transfer to Cal, now that he has some solid academia under his belt.  Man, what a cutie.  Just like all the young guys on Tokyo TV who look like Beatlemanians--or is it Samurai warriors?  (Or is it Beatlemaniacs?  Whatever.)


    They let me off at the house so I could visit the gang, put up my window shades, and drop off a few things for school.  Nobody had any plans in particular.  Wow, the place looks so nouveau Mexicali now with all the hot colors, contrasting trim, and primitive motifs.  The hues are even more intense than predicted in the relatively small rooms; color cards must be made for homes like the White House.   The old turq blue Frigidaire fits right in with the new cameo pink and off-white kitchen.  I also contributed an ornate wrought metal garden sconce with three crackle glass candle cups I picked up at an import store, "in case we ever have a bad blackout," but really cuz it's bitchingly romantic.   We nailed it over the wall heater in the living room and threw in some tea candles; they're the only ones that won't get too hot and crack the glass all the way through.  (How do I know this?  It happens to be my THIRD such candle holder!   Ah, Hollywood.  Beauty might fade, but it's worth the risk.)  All we need are some heavy tinted Mexican glasses and a few place settings of Fiestaware and the look will be complete.   Then we might be starving artists instead of starving STUDENTS.  


    The trouble with any rental you fix up is you get to feel like it's your own.   I couldn't believe how clean all my roomies are now, so respectful.  Fuck, paint can scratch, you know.   Everybody's gotta sneak a peak at each room fifty times from fifty different positions, too.  Don't ask why we talk with our heads tilted at bizarre angles like a cat with an ear infection or stare suddenly into space as if we've had a heavenly vision.  It's admire, admire.  Gosh, how shall we ever leave here when we grow up?!


    Saturday night Chelle and I got restless and decided to take a ride to "get away from it all" Thelma & Louise style.  (Among my all-time favorite flicks, it's touted as one of the rare female Deliverance stories.)  Just us chicks, one last time before class starts at the end of this month.   So we "borrowed" her Dad's big Ford station wagon, drove into the Sierra's, hiked around, sat on the tailgate, ate Kentucky Fried Chicken and toasted marshmallows, and talked.  Everything was groovy until things started to follow the movie script more than we'd bargained for.   We were parked for the night in a remote turnout in the canyon when a troop of motorcycle dudes roared up around two a.m. and started circling us, really gunning it.  Shit, just what we needed, rape on wheels.  Chelle and I had to struggle out of our sleeping bags, find the damn keys in the dark, climb over the front seat, and haul ass outta there.  We almost hit one guy trying to get back on the road.  Woo!   


    We ended up at this dumpy motel near the lake.  Wouldn't you know they'd have Alpinitis, with complimentary Swiss chocolates,  maids in flapping Medieval nuns' hats and dingy pink pinafores,  the whole bit.   But we could've been at Motel 6 with the standard Gideon bible, vibrating beds, stall showers, beige lino floors, and black and white TV's.   I was too hot and couldn't sleep cuz Chelle, worried about a break-in, had to sleep in the bed under the window.   Finally, at the crack of dawn, I convinced her to trade places and managed a few hours of shuteye while she turned to the wall and fumed.  


    We had breakfast at this truck stop overlooking the blue mountainous haze.   There was no place to sit but the snack bar, where the cook, embarrassed about all the flies and sporting a big white plastic fly swatter, tried to impress us with his aim.   By this time my friend was in a much better mood, but it was hard to talk with the guy taking bat right over our plates, barely missing our food.  I'm not kidding; the orange juice was jiggling in the glasses as if there were an earthquake, and there were pustular squashed flies all over the counter.  Ick!  I'll never have steak and eggs AGAIN.  But we had a good laugh. 


    So much for our dream vacation to defy the Port Authority, hop a train, and make like vagabonds for Mardi Gras before graduation.  Better stick with Brett's excuse that we're much too short to get up into a freight car, anyway, no matter how us gals work out and improve our upper body strength.   Remember that Natty Gann had a big handsome guy helping her up.  I imagine us all getting our periods and stinking like the hogs we'll have to bed down next to, too.