We drove to LA yesterday, all the way through Big Sur on highway 1. It was amazing. We got started late because we had to stop and get an oil change in a town called Sea Side; turns out we’d been running her dry the day before. Oops. The Dart really likes gas. Yesterday she drank it up like Pepsi at a birthday party, but it’s not Pepsi, it’s gas, and I think we have to have a little chat.
While Jiffy Lube were giving Brenda’s pussy the once over (I’ve dubbed the Dart Brenda; Joe isn’t into it. I’ve also come to think of Brenda’s engine as her pussy. Joe doesn’t mind that), I went to Radio Shack to get some bits. Small town Radio Shacks don’t work like the one’s in the big city–they don’t possess that wonderful sense of urgency that the big city Radio Shacks have. In fact they are so slow you have to wonder if they’re in the business of making money. It took me half an hour to buy a mini-to-mini cable because the joker behind the counter was chatting for so long with other customers I thought maybe he was running for Mayor. ‘Are you running for Mayor?’ I asked when I finally got served. He just looked back at me and blinked. Then he launched into a long story about some scandal involving the local mayor and parking tickets.
With Brenda’s oily bits good to go, we set out for LA. Again, Big Sur is fucking amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. The 101 winds like a ribbon along the Pacific coast. Up and down, in and out it goes; it’s like a roller coaster with a view. And what a view! We saw more cool stuff than I have space to tell you about. We stopped to look at an elephant seal rookery somewhere near San Simeon. The beach was covered with the buggers, lying all over the place like dirty, brown sleeping bags filled with sand. Joe said some of them looked dead; they were just asleep though.
We turned off 101 and hit Hwy 46, where we came upon the junction where James Dean was killed in a car crash. That was a trip. It’s just a sign in the middle of nowhere that says ‘James Dean Memorial Junction.’ Being a massive Deaner fan (secret shame), I was giddy, and made Joe pull over so I could rub one out in the dry prairie grass.
At 8 PM we pulled up at Warren’s pad in LA, and, after a shower and shirt-change, met up with the LA Monster Children crew at a Mexican restaurant. Then we went to a bar. Then I told Warren he wasn’t allowed go to a ‘rave’ because we were up early. ‘Crombie,’ he said, ‘do I have to explain to you how experienced I am at staying up late and getting up early?’ Warren is a pro surfer. I don’t surf and I don’t go on surf trips, but I’m pretty sure those fuckers stay in bed until noon every day regardless of what time they get to bed. Warren, who was (to use the native parlance) ‘chasing tail,’ begrudgingly agreed to skip the rave and get some sleep, which made me feel like his dad. I didn’t mind feeling like his dad; I don’t have any kids of my own, and I kind of feel like I’m missing the boat on that one. Maybe I’ll adopt Warren. Maybe Joe and Warren can be my boys. I can teach them how to fish. What the fuck am I talking about?
So now here I am, typing in the back seat on Highway 10, not feeling nauseous. Lucky you. Next stop: the Grand Canyon, and a bunch of small towns where we will be beaten for looking like ‘queers,’ and where ‘there are no girls, Crombie. We won’t see any girls until Austin, you watch.’
(pictured: gas station near James Dean Memorial Junction)