California. Day Two...

Sometimes I wake up while my eyes are still closed. I am perfectly conscious but not willing just yet to accept the visual of the day's reality. While asleep, dreams swallow my mind in an extraordinarily visceral and abstract fashion. I am always so amazed by them that I'm certain my real-life day will seem like a G-rated, watered-down sequel with no special effects. So, I rest there with my eyes closed deciding if I want to go back to dreaming or not. It's like deciding if you want to get out of the pool, knowing you won't be able to do your underwater, anti-gravity dance moves as easily. Or maybe it is like the feeling Superman gets right after he has done his good deed but before he changes back into his plebeian attire–"Am I done having carte blanche to my surroundings–with massive strength and mind-boggling agility? I can reverse time real quick and watch Star Trek again...screw it, I kinda like these glasses." But honestly, I can never go back to sleep; when I'm awake, I'm awake, and the day never disappoints me.

The weather in Burbank is such that my friend leaves all the windows open. One couldn't be more comfortable. The air was clear and cool (now that I think about it, my allergies were quite subdued save for a sneeze here and there). Out front of her place is a concrete river of motor vehicles steadily passing by. It was relaxing; as if waves were crashing ashore. You'd have to live in New York City to come to the point where you can compare man's machinery with that which it pollutes and destroys.

It was breakfast time and we drove up the road to tame our disgruntled stomachs. I grew up with a firm rearing when it came to breakfast appreciation. My parents knew how to cook it and soon breakfast out-flavored any meal that would follow. I grew to respect breakfast. It became holy to me and sometimes, to start my day, I would take it into the other room and confess my sins to it. I would place my plate high above me and my food would pontificate: "Breakfast is king; no meal is more important than me; no meal will ever taste better me; no meal will ever make you feel that why that I do!" And this is true. And my friend apparently had the same upbringing.

We were seated at a cute, arty mosaic table outside so we could appreciate the fine weather (for future reference, I am replacing the term "artsy" with the newer, fresher term "arty" as the former is passé and requires evolution). We both ordered: French Toast; two eggs, scrambled; sausage and bacon. After a few moments we received our beautiful meals and began eating. We started to chat and suddenly I was done with my plate. It was empty. Finished. I think we completed about two sentences when I already started eyeing her food. This was acceptable table etiquette because between bites she was giving the "I-think-I-might-be-done" signal allowing me to give the "I'm-listening-but-I-am-still-interested-in-eating-more" signal. So I finished her plate, allowing me to eat more than I ordered which makes me want to high-five myself. I was happy and my stomach had a lot of work to do.

Food made us happy and we wanted to continue that state of emotion. So, we traveled on over to a part of LA called Los Feliz, which means The Happy! Out here in LA, you can be anyone, and adjectives can be nouns. The Happy. The happy what? Well, you fill in that blank. Although named after ranch-owner José Vicente Feliz, this pleasant area can still imbue a cheerful feeling. Here in The Happy, you can visit the Griffith Observatory and read about James Dean. It seemed to me a bit random to see a bust of James Dean there at the observatory. It didn't make sense to me; there was no purpose; without a Cause! The observatory overlooks the happy town of Loz Feliz, and also produces a view of the famous Hollywood sign which prompted me to exclaim my wonderment by saying, "Ah! There's that thing."

After appreciating the various altitudes that LA has to offer, we went back down to sea level and drove to the existing sea. The Pacific Sea. Oceans can be Seas, right? I mean, adjectives can be nouns after all. The beach we visited was not so much a beach but a carnival of magical fascination! Venice Beach. Just saying the name gives me a legal high. Venice Beach has many layers of enjoyment. While walking to the boardwalk, we passed beautiful beach homes, quaint boutiques, and a corner store that donned a massive statue of a cross-dressing Disney-esque clown. Venice Beach. The water, the sandy beach, the boardwalk and the homes are all nicely distanced from each other and can be enjoyed equally without any spill-over from the adjacent attraction.

The boardwalk is packed. Talk about all walks of life? I am not even sure that some of the things walking were alive! There were beautiful freaks, punk-rock geeks, hippy-clad business folk, Russian-imported pin-up whores, and I am sure I saw some creatures from Jim Henson's Labyrinth selling surfboard clocks. Venice Beach. Lining the sidewalk were street vendors selling boundless crap. You walk a bit more and there is someone else selling the same crap–I assume distributed from the parent crap emporium that supplies the crap that is sold on St. Mark's in New York. It's crap, but at Venice Beach you have crap AND legitimate freaks.

New York has been suffering from what I refer to as the "Clean Cancer". I just played a show last night in the city and noticed all the punk kids had a clean and almost sterilized look about them. Hipsters that sport their Eastern European slash Dusty Americana also look very clean and refined (iPod accessories can exaggerate the level of spruceness). The streets are cleaning up and the freaks are retreating. Make no mistake: the Cancer that is sanitizing New York is malignant and will metastasize into fatuous cosmopolitans adorning themselves with polished crap. But Venice Beach? The crap is dirty. Grimy even. And it makes New York look uptight. There is no single overwhelming brand of individual meandering along the boardwalk. Like I said, there are all walks of...things. And it is a long walk!

The beach itself is beautiful and vast. Once you're near the ocean, the boardwalk is quiet and seems years away. Within the cold water are surfers, families, and even unattended children enjoying themselves, almost ritualistically ignoring the NO NADAR/NO SWIMMING sign. The west coast makes for a windy beach (that reminds me, last night I had a dream about flying an awesome canvas kite and I never fly kites). While patting along the cool thinning waves I was happy to see the avid practice of developing and testing one's own sand castle. Venician's of all ages were digging, shaping, and reconstructing their personal fortifications. This is what it is all about. We all know the song, "...castles made of sand melt into the sea...", yet everyone constructing their fortress did so with blissful determination. If they know that it is going to fail, it still doesn't stop them. Maybe if I thicken the front wall; maybe if I spend an hour digging out a moat; if I fortify this tower with shells, will it help? Fighting the inevitable allots for endless creativity.

We made our way back to the boardwalk where the activity was perpetual. But returning to the boardwalk was not without peril. A staple attraction of Venice Beach inauspiciously lay before us: the bike path. A mere 10 feet in width, this cataclysmic stream of cyclists is a terrorizing fusion of Konami's Frogger and a meat slicer. You have to be quick. You have to be sober. You have to wear sunglasses. Luckily, after a few attempts and making some tactical adjustments, we made it across.

Venice Beach is a great visit. We had the sun, the roar of the population, and the rhythms of a nearby African drum circle, but we felt needed one more thing: a beer. Knowing the value of food and drink, we quickly agreed that a cold alcoholic beverage was the perfect addition to this gala. We enjoyed ourselves and paid as much attention to the multitude of passers-by as we did for our syrupy french toast that same morning, and it was just as appetizing. Venice Beach.

California. Cali's not for Sallys after all...

I have always been skeptical about the west coast. For no reason in particular. My skepticism was founded mostly on a "why-not-hate-it" kind of reasoning. I had never been there and felt that my disdain would not have any real blowback. Perhaps it is just easy to disregard and judge something that is far from you. Also, I grew up in a coastal land full of palm trees, sand and heat so why visit something I know about. However, the main difference between my hometown and LA was that in LA there are, surprisingly, an inspiring array of cultural epicenters. Back at my hood, the closest thing to an art scene was the spray-painting of the word "shrubhumper" across the cement guardrails on a bridge down the road from my home. This exhibition did in fact have a lasting effect on me–partly because the hilarity of this new term and party because it was accompanied with a visual: a stick figure doing the do with a curly shrub, all in red acrylic. Although it was nonsensical and opened my eyes to the underground world of dendrophilia, it still felt a little amateur. So the idea of both sunshine and a blooming artistic environment never really coexisted for me–that's why I moved to NYC, where shrubhumper artists can not only make a buck on the street exploiting pussy-willows, but could potentially be sponsored by the MTA as well. And after living in NYC for a few years I finally got an opportunity to visit California with an old friend who has lived out there long enough to supply ample tour-guide-like feedback about the area. Florida? got it. New York? got it. LA? why not visit it? At this point I was looking forward to experiencing this sandy hot coastal land.

There was much to check out but my intention was to enjoy myself, not swallow the entire county whole. After arrival at LAX, I was brought by my friend to her home in Burbank. During this 45-minute traffic-filled ride I was given a brief description of the surrounding area which included some mountains, Century City, Downtown LA, more mountains, and even Warner Brothers studios (which has it's own backdrop of mountains). Burbank itself was clean and (even though I feel like an assuming snob saying this) it looked safe. Also, the beautiful mountains that cradled this cute area gave me a sense of tranquillity.

After dropping my stuff off at my friend's beautiful one bedroom pueblo, we established our prioties by quickly getting back into the car to get something to eat. But it was not just "something", it was an In-And-Out Burger.

Now, my aunt had some reservations about food from an establishment whose name suggests an undesired aftermath, but I assure you, this food remained in my stomach, happily. For me, and I am sure other East-Coatsers, this burger has a legendary status pertaining not initially to its succulent taste but its prestigious association with the Cohen Bros. film The Big Lebowski. The protagonists of the film repeatedly recognize this west coast fast food joint as an imperative stop amongst their otherwise flawed and hazardous venture. Their characters are moronic and daft, and I hold them all in the highest regards. Their endorsement was an easy sell.

I hadn't eaten all day save for a banana, ginger snaps and some Pringles at the airport. But more food was soon to come and that was all I could think about. We arrived. The place was busy. We were hungry. I spotted others eating. I was happy. I order. She was number 5. I was number 6. We sat down. I took a bite. I started to feel more human. The burger tasted glorious and divine in its greasy assembly. At this point I could only assume that it was the body of Christ. And I ordered two–and fries, which I guess could assume the role of the Holy Ghost in this tasty trinity. My friend and I caught up while we both responsibly maintained a respectable does of attention to the juicy, meaty morsels that plastered our chat. It was a pretty damn good time clearly a good start to this trip.

This first night was a laid back introduction to the neighborhood (we decided this trip would flow to our own discourse). We returned home and spent the rest of the evening caressing the keys of my host's recently tuned piano. Whilst formulating our ad hoc itinerary, we agree and establishing the next day's kick-off point: breakfast.