Category Masticating With Mellzah

One Classy Lass

17 Comments read California, Masticating With Mellzah, Pacific, Travel, USA, West

My dad and I packed in quite a bit during my last day in San Diego. The first step was packing our stomachs. I’d mentioned some nostalgia over the Walker Brothers pancake house in Chicago, and by whatever grace exists in the univese, they’ve opened ONE location outside of chicagoland, and that location is in San Diego. When I am willing to get into this sort of a line for a pancake, know that it is no ordinary pancake, it is the best damn pancake on earth.

I’m serious.  After cramming myself dangerously full of apple pancake and perfect thick-cut bacon, it was determined that we would go ride bikes around Mission Bay. Here’s the thing about that. ‘They’ say that once you learn to ride a bike, you’ll never forget, and that may be true. It took me much, much, MUCH longer than my peers to learn how to ride a bike. My parents hadn’t realized that scabs on knees could possibly become so thick prior to the ‘Melissa attempting to ride a bike year(s)’. So while you may never forget how to ride a bike, let me assure you that if it’s been, say, a good fifteen years since you’ve last straddled one, the first few miles are going to be white-knuckled and shaky. Granted, it was a Monday, so pedestrian traffic around the bay was not as thick as it would be on the weekend, but it was more than thick enough for my tastes. A woman jogging with a double-wide baby stroller cut in front of me, and I worked at keeping a safe distance behind her…but then she slowed down. I couldn’t go around her, as a large group of people were walking in the opposite direction, with a large dog that kept bounding into my lane of ‘traffic’. At this point, I was traveling slow enough to wobble and didn’t know what to do. So, of course, I panicked, yanked the handlebars taking the bike off-path into the sand and then promptly flipped over said handlebars. You never forget how to ride a bike…in the manner to which you are accustomed. We rode for about eight more miles after the, er, incident, and by the end I was doing quite well–riding a lot more confidently, doing a few things off-path without (or with less) fear, engaging street traffic without shitting myself, and only wobbling when reaching back to make sure my wallet hadn’t popped out of my pants pocket as it is wont to do. After we returned the bikes, we took a good long walk to Pacific Beach, seeing as how we still had more time and it was a gorgeous day.

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There are wee cabins sitting out on the pier at Pacific Beach that you can rent. I think it would be lovely to spend a night or two sleeping out above the ocean.   After we walked back, we STILL had a little more time, so we wandered around Seaport Village a bit. One of the pedicab drivers noted my ‘Benjamin Franklinstein’ shirt and offered us a free ride to wherever we were going, but we declined since we didn’t really have a destination. From Seaport Village, it’s only a short distance to the airport, so my dad dropped me off in plenty of time. It only took me five minutes to get through security, so I decided to get a cool beverage while I waited to board the plane. It was then that I realized how badly my arms were burned, when my skin crinkled in that taut, uncomfortable way as I reached for my wallet. This is another significant piece of evidence that I don’t learn from my mistakes. When I went to Hawaii with Alex, we went snorkling, and I didn’t think to put sunscreen on the backs of my legs, though they’d be hanging out of the water all day long, and consequently got one of the worst burns of my life. This time, I gave no thought to the idea that in the act of riding a bike, my arms would be stretched out in front of me and hence much more exposed than they are normally. That’s how I wound up with a totally elegant farmer-tan-line burn. At the moment, I’m flaking and leaving DNA evidence everywhere, so I must be careful not to commit any murders until AFTER I’m done healing.

God, schmod, I want my monkey man!

42 Comments read Attractions, California, Masticating With Mellzah, Pacific, Travel, USA, West

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  I spent Thursday morning lounging around and reading Geek Love, a book I’d unsuccessfully tried to mooch on BookMooch for going on three months (I honestly don’t know why I keep trying, every experience I’ve had with that site makes me loathe it and humanity more) and eventually broke down and purchased after bringing terror down on a Barnes & Noble bathroom one afternoon. Around noon, when my camera battery was fully charged, I walked the three miles to Balboa Park to see what I could see. The first area that I wandered around was the artists’ gallery, where visitors can observe craftspeople at work, purchase their work, and occasionally also take classes in the trade. I didn’t see many artists at work, and the area was mostly quiet save for the classical guitarist sitting in the middle of the venue.

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After I had seen what there was to see in the artists’ gallery, I walked to the cactus and rose garden areas of the park. I actually expected to prefer the rose gardens, but was struck by the variety of cactus species and the way they were arranged; the cacti were in a more natural arrangement which gave the area a power that the bricked-off roses did not have. Equally amazing was how quickly the power and beauty of the area was sapped when some douchebag decided to bring a boombox and blast Bon Jovi. Go ride your steel horse into traffic, cowboy.

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  I was really saddened and disappointed to see that people had taken it upon themselves to carve their names into the cacti, to rip up the dedication plates on the benches in the rose pavillion and to tag the hell out of the benches and pavillion itself. What did they get out of it, besides ruining something nice for other people? When I mentioned this to my dad later, he said that one of his recurring fantasies is to just appear out of nowhere with a baseball bat when people like this are tagging, break their legs, and disappear into the night; a different sort of batman. I am pretty much my father’s daughter. I wandered around the park proper for a while, people-watching. The botanical gardens were closed, which was a little disappointing, as I’ve enjoyed that area in the past.

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After a time, I went into the Timken Museum of Art, and while I shouldn’t complain about a free museum, I’m going to do so regardless. The staff loomed unpleasantly at every room entrance, and it’s hard to focus on art when you can feel eyeballs boring holes into your back. What’s worse, though, and any decent curator should know this, is that very reflective paintings were displayed high on the walls near the light source, rendering them impossible to see. What, exactly, is the point of having a museum where you cannot actually see the works of art? After the disappointment of the Timken, I washed the taste out of my mouth with one of the pay museums–the Museum of Man, which was currently running three exhibits: one on ancient South American Indian civilizations, one on the evolution of man, and one on the Egyptians and mummification, all of which are right up my alley. 24604_377947433939_5483361_n

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This is Gigantopithecus, the largest known primate. No, they did not have a stuffed Bigfoot inside the museum. Here they showed a series of related primates: 24604_377947523939_7565925_n

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Here I just wanted to take a picture of some caveman wang: 24604_377947548939_7697301_n   24604_377947563939_7976690_n

Not all robot feet look like that. This display is discriminatory against robots, I feel. Also, my feet are much daintier than any of those. Then I got to play dig site, which didn’t really have any relevance to anything else in the museum, but what the hell:

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After I’d finished with the Museum of Man, it was just about time to walk back and meet my dad for dinner. We ended up going to El Indio, which is one of my favorite Mexican places ever even though I get the totally gringo trailer park of taste California burrito (carne asada, cheese, and french fries all wrapped in a flour tortilla. Yeah, you read that correctly.) and a mysterious beverage called ‘BANG!’.   After dinner, we walked down the street and bought some gelato, and I brought up the idea of going to school for makeup special effects. I did not expect my dad to be supportive of the idea at ALL as he’s always discouraged me when I looked at ‘arty’ careers, so I was floored when he said he thought that sort of career would be a perfect fit for me and that I should definitely go for it. So far I’m still looking at schools, but it’s nice to feel like I’ve got a path in front of me and that I’m not in it alone.