Sunday, December 25, 2005
Good ol' fashioned family holiday - Part I
In 2000, my sister and I went to Death Valley for the holidays, then hooked up with friends for a New Year's eve gathering even further out in the boondocks. Over the next few days I'll blog my journal entries from the trip, 5 years ago to the day, starting with Christmas day:
1. Runners
On Christmas day, My sister Lynnie and I decided to go to my friend Jon’s house because he couldn't go on our planned pre-new year's Death Valley jaunt. We ended up at his hideaway in a Studio City canyon around two. There was a full Christmas dinner, complete with gourmet-level turkey, the recipe for which Jon told me he got from a trick after fucking his brains out. Always multi-tasking, that Jon.
We watched Logan's Run as our alternative to It's a Wonderful Life. Farrah Fawcett is sooo bad in that, and the whole thing gets cheesier and cheesier and triter and triter every time I see it, yet so heartfelt; so in a way I do get the same sensation that most people do from watching IAWL. The concept of Carousel still tickles my mind, though. Where do they go when they explode, back into the energy supply somehow? I want to have Michael York's body in Logan's Run as my next physical look.
Just before we left, as it was getting dark, Natalie and Elena arrived and cooked potatoes. Elena sat in a corner by herself, but I couldn't tell if she was shy, snobby or high. Natalie is a bona-fide mad-woman of the highest caliber. More on them later.
We departed around six. It was pitch dark by then, and we stopped for coffee at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Laurel Canyon before leaving town. It was packed with loners and stray pairs, defectors from family drama, like us. My whole molecular structure changed as soon as we got to that first gap between civilizations on the I-10. I like space, I decided, and I like it empty.
2. Bun Boy
After a couple of hours, we decided to stop in Baker for the night instead of going on to Death Valley and arriving at 11 or something like that. As we discussed this, we passed a billboard with a piggy little cook-boy with a chef's hat humping a big phallic thing. It was hard to tell that this thing was supposed to be the World's Tallest Thermometer–134 feet tall to commemorate the hottest recorded temperature in the western hemisphere: 134 degrees in August, 1914. Why this commemoration took place was not clear, but the thermometer was erected by the Bun Boy Motel, Restaurant, General Store, two gas stations and gift shop just a few years ago. Basically, Bun Boy is about half of Baker, and the thermometer’s their big power symbol. Pretty primal, huh?
Back to the Bun Boy himself, the one on the billboard, the mascot of this captain of Baker industry: Here was this elfin cook climbing up the thermometer with the most lascivious, tongue-out look on his face. Lynnie and I laughed about it for several minutes straight, and this began a long chain of laughing fits and silent time that ran throughout our trip.
3. Sulphur Burns
When we got to Baker, we cruised the strip and settled on the Royal Hawaiian, on the western outskirts, less flashy than the den of the Bun Boy. Lynnie said her boss, Eric, had stayed there and thought it was cool. Eric is a magnet for all things cool.
The old lady behind the counter was straight out of the Ozarks, and I couldn't understand but every other word:
"...folks...got...double...the...floor...forty-five...got...on...second...for fifty..."
"We'll take the cheaper one," we said. The woman was impressed that I knew my license plate by heart, and by this time I was able to decipher her:
"Yep, that's a man atter ma own heart. I gone out and bought a car and the first thing I did was memorize me that license plate number because so many-a those dang new cars look exactly a-like, and you can't even find it in the parking lot."
"Mm-hmm," I said.
As we walked out of the office, there was an overwhelming stench of sulphur in the air–so strong that it made our eyes water and noses burn. It smelled like about a million rotten eggs eaten by some abominable desert sandman and farted out of his nasty ass. I mean, this was bad! And so was our room, which was not in the old 50s part of the Royal Hawaiian, in the stucco bungalows that arch off the peak-roofed, palm tree-framed gate. No, ours was in the back, in a newish, crumbling dingbat structure that we decided could only be a crack house. The room was severely repulsive, from its linoleum bedroom floor to its defunct television to its stained and cramped shower. We considered it for a while. Lynnie was ready to leave immediately. The thing that finally convinced me was the fact that my box spring was completely torn and eaten up inside, nearly hollow. I imagined rats. We exited back into the sulphur and once again into the office we went.
"Some'n wrong?"
"Can we, uh, not stay here and get our money back?" said Lynnie.
"Why, what happened?"
"Nothing happened. We just don't, uh, want to stay here."
"Awright. Ya didn't do nothin' to the room now, didja?"
"No, of course not," I chimed in.
"Well some people would outta spite. There's people like that."
We got our money back, and I thought it was funny that she was probably one a’those kind of people herself.
Bun Boy beckoned. We paid eighty bucks for a room that was just a tiny step above Motel 6. Baker's a total racket. In the morning, we ate at the Bun Boy restaurant, where we paid seven bucks for eggs and bacon. I think Bun Boy needs a little more competition in dear old Baker. The gift shop had odd stuff. Example: a black porcelain-faced baby-doll in a body-hugging white fur jumpsuit complete with hood. Actually, it was more like a white fur body sock. There was a line for the women's bathroom, and you would have thought it was about 1965 judging from the
waiting ladies' hair-dos.
We bought some chilied mangoes at a funky mini-mart across the street, and got Turkish coffee at the Mad Greek Cafe, where you can get anything from a stewed lamshank with tatziki to a trio of fried taquitos. There's a picture of the guy who opened the place in there with Dean Martin; or is it Frank Sinatra? By the way, the sulphur smell (?) was only strong around the Royal Hawaiian, but it was always in the air. Baker is such a hell hole. Funny where Greeks end up. Greeks, and Jews, wandering, like me.
Categories: family, friends, holidays, travel, backstory
1. Runners
On Christmas day, My sister Lynnie and I decided to go to my friend Jon’s house because he couldn't go on our planned pre-new year's Death Valley jaunt. We ended up at his hideaway in a Studio City canyon around two. There was a full Christmas dinner, complete with gourmet-level turkey, the recipe for which Jon told me he got from a trick after fucking his brains out. Always multi-tasking, that Jon.
We watched Logan's Run as our alternative to It's a Wonderful Life. Farrah Fawcett is sooo bad in that, and the whole thing gets cheesier and cheesier and triter and triter every time I see it, yet so heartfelt; so in a way I do get the same sensation that most people do from watching IAWL. The concept of Carousel still tickles my mind, though. Where do they go when they explode, back into the energy supply somehow? I want to have Michael York's body in Logan's Run as my next physical look.
Just before we left, as it was getting dark, Natalie and Elena arrived and cooked potatoes. Elena sat in a corner by herself, but I couldn't tell if she was shy, snobby or high. Natalie is a bona-fide mad-woman of the highest caliber. More on them later.
We departed around six. It was pitch dark by then, and we stopped for coffee at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Laurel Canyon before leaving town. It was packed with loners and stray pairs, defectors from family drama, like us. My whole molecular structure changed as soon as we got to that first gap between civilizations on the I-10. I like space, I decided, and I like it empty.
2. Bun Boy
After a couple of hours, we decided to stop in Baker for the night instead of going on to Death Valley and arriving at 11 or something like that. As we discussed this, we passed a billboard with a piggy little cook-boy with a chef's hat humping a big phallic thing. It was hard to tell that this thing was supposed to be the World's Tallest Thermometer–134 feet tall to commemorate the hottest recorded temperature in the western hemisphere: 134 degrees in August, 1914. Why this commemoration took place was not clear, but the thermometer was erected by the Bun Boy Motel, Restaurant, General Store, two gas stations and gift shop just a few years ago. Basically, Bun Boy is about half of Baker, and the thermometer’s their big power symbol. Pretty primal, huh?
Back to the Bun Boy himself, the one on the billboard, the mascot of this captain of Baker industry: Here was this elfin cook climbing up the thermometer with the most lascivious, tongue-out look on his face. Lynnie and I laughed about it for several minutes straight, and this began a long chain of laughing fits and silent time that ran throughout our trip.
3. Sulphur Burns
When we got to Baker, we cruised the strip and settled on the Royal Hawaiian, on the western outskirts, less flashy than the den of the Bun Boy. Lynnie said her boss, Eric, had stayed there and thought it was cool. Eric is a magnet for all things cool.
The old lady behind the counter was straight out of the Ozarks, and I couldn't understand but every other word:
"...folks...got...double...the...floor...forty-five...got...on...second...for fifty..."
"We'll take the cheaper one," we said. The woman was impressed that I knew my license plate by heart, and by this time I was able to decipher her:
"Yep, that's a man atter ma own heart. I gone out and bought a car and the first thing I did was memorize me that license plate number because so many-a those dang new cars look exactly a-like, and you can't even find it in the parking lot."
"Mm-hmm," I said.
As we walked out of the office, there was an overwhelming stench of sulphur in the air–so strong that it made our eyes water and noses burn. It smelled like about a million rotten eggs eaten by some abominable desert sandman and farted out of his nasty ass. I mean, this was bad! And so was our room, which was not in the old 50s part of the Royal Hawaiian, in the stucco bungalows that arch off the peak-roofed, palm tree-framed gate. No, ours was in the back, in a newish, crumbling dingbat structure that we decided could only be a crack house. The room was severely repulsive, from its linoleum bedroom floor to its defunct television to its stained and cramped shower. We considered it for a while. Lynnie was ready to leave immediately. The thing that finally convinced me was the fact that my box spring was completely torn and eaten up inside, nearly hollow. I imagined rats. We exited back into the sulphur and once again into the office we went.
"Some'n wrong?"
"Can we, uh, not stay here and get our money back?" said Lynnie.
"Why, what happened?"
"Nothing happened. We just don't, uh, want to stay here."
"Awright. Ya didn't do nothin' to the room now, didja?"
"No, of course not," I chimed in.
"Well some people would outta spite. There's people like that."
We got our money back, and I thought it was funny that she was probably one a’those kind of people herself.
Bun Boy beckoned. We paid eighty bucks for a room that was just a tiny step above Motel 6. Baker's a total racket. In the morning, we ate at the Bun Boy restaurant, where we paid seven bucks for eggs and bacon. I think Bun Boy needs a little more competition in dear old Baker. The gift shop had odd stuff. Example: a black porcelain-faced baby-doll in a body-hugging white fur jumpsuit complete with hood. Actually, it was more like a white fur body sock. There was a line for the women's bathroom, and you would have thought it was about 1965 judging from the
waiting ladies' hair-dos.
We bought some chilied mangoes at a funky mini-mart across the street, and got Turkish coffee at the Mad Greek Cafe, where you can get anything from a stewed lamshank with tatziki to a trio of fried taquitos. There's a picture of the guy who opened the place in there with Dean Martin; or is it Frank Sinatra? By the way, the sulphur smell (?) was only strong around the Royal Hawaiian, but it was always in the air. Baker is such a hell hole. Funny where Greeks end up. Greeks, and Jews, wandering, like me.
Categories: family, friends, holidays, travel, backstory
