You’re killing me, Smalls!

April 2, 2010 29 Comments read Attractions, California, Everything is Terrible, Pacific, Travel, USA, West

On Saturday, we made a group outing to Six Flags Magic Mountain–my dad and I started off from San Diego proper, we picked up my brother at a park & ride in Oceanside, and then we picked up my dad’s sexy mysterious latin luvvah (as he requested to be called; forthwith he will be referred to as ‘J’, but whenever you see ‘J’, feel free to substitute it for ‘sexy mysterious latin luvvah’ in your mind) at a park & ride in orange county. It’s a long trip to Magic Mountain, and so we discussed a variety of topics, like that chick with the tattooed forehead who is on the news, and dissected Lady GaGa lyrics, and generally mocked people and had a good time.

We had already bought our tickets and parking pass online, so we drove right in. It wasn’t until AFTER we got into the park that the announcement was made that due to wind, pretty well every ride that any roller coaster fan would want to ride was closed, but that we were free to enjoy the rest of the park OR just go home–it didn’t matter because they already had our money and weren’t planning on letting it go. We got in line for the ‘Terminator: Salvation’ ride, which wasn’t actually a new ride–they’d rebranded a coaster that was already there. Within five minutes of getting in line for this ride, an announcement was made that the ride was experiencing technical difficulties but that they’d get around to working on it ‘as soon as they could’. We decided to wait instead of getting out of line–twenty minutes later, they started up the ride again. During that twenty minutes, we were bombarded with commercials from the TV displays in line because unfortunately THOSE never stop working. J and I also got to see the girl in front of us in line carefully popping pimples on her boyfriend’s face. Romance is dead.

^{I do not find this sign funny in an ironic sense but perhaps I will, years down the line.}

After approximately two hours in line, we were ushered into a room where they played a seriously lame video about machines coming for the human stronghold that was Six Flags. By this point, I am seriously sick of waiting and did not have even a second of patience to do anything other than mock the video. We were then herded into another room with terminator torsos while the video screamed at us to GO GO GO GO THE MACHINES ARE AFTER US.

^{The heads in the foreground? Pimple Popper and her Bepimpled Boyfriend.}

For some reason, they were videotaping the crowd in line and showed us on the monitors as we passed through the door–I sincerely hope they caught my eye-rolling. We all agreed that we should try to enjoy this ride as much as possible, given that it might be the only ride we got on that day. J leaned forward to whisper something snarky to my brother about a larger guy who was struggling to get his lap bar down. Eventually, it was determined that he was too large to ride, and he had to get off and wait for his friends. My heart broke for him. How awful it must be to have waited in that insanely long line for nothing but a dose of shame in front of a watching crowd. I wanted to jump out of line and give the poor guy a hug. After the ride, we decided to get in line for one of the only other operating coasters–Deja Vu. I shit you not, within ten minutes of being in line for this ride, it was announced that it, too, was shut down for mechanical difficulties but that it should be up again soon. Two out of two? Really? What the hell kind of disrepair are you keeping your park in, Six Flags? We again decided to wait (what other line were we going to get into?) and again invested a good two hours in line. We began to get pissed off at the people who had bought Flash Passes, which allowed them to cut to the front of the line, extending our time in line indefinitely. It’s one thing if the whole park is open: then only a few people are getting in front of you in line on any given ride, but when 3/4ths of the park’s rides are shut down, it makes a huge impact and extends the already outrageous wait times. By the time we got off of Deja Vu, the wind had died down and some rides had opened up again. We got in line for Tatsu, and shortly thereafter, my brother pitched a fit about ‘wasting his day’ and decided to get out of line to wait for us. So…he was going to wait JUST as long, only with no ride at the end. I don’t get it either. The line went reasonably quickly, after which we hopped into the line for the Viper which was essentially empty–our theory was that so many people had reached their waiting limit that they’d just given up and gone home. After the Viper, we decided to see if our favorite ride, X2, was open, and it had JUST reopened, so we were also able to walk straight onto that ride. My brother also elected to sit out even the short lines, knowing that if he maintained his hiss fit, he would eventually get what he wanted and we would go home. After X2, he got his wish–we decided to head back to the car, get dinner, and then go home. On the way back to the car, we discussed the supposed gang problem that Magic Mountain has. It’s not in your face but there’s definitely that element where there are people you just wouldn’t ever want to mess with, instinctively. I personally don’t get it–what gang is like “Hey mang, so your initiation is to buy a season pass to magic mountain, mang. We are the funnel cake gang. Our enemies are those churro bitches. They may look tough on the outside, but the inside is all soft, mang. One day, all this turf will be OUR turf. Until 10pm, when they kick us out for the night.” After dinner, we hit the road for the two hour drive home. Or so we thought. Here’s a little foreshadowing for you–the previous day, on our way home from Julian, Discount Tire called to let my dad know that the tires he wanted to buy were backordered until May. My dad said that his need for tires wasn’t that dire, so he would wait. Can you guess what happened next? You’re right! We heard the helicopter-y THUPPATHUPPATHUPPA noise of a flat right as we passed through a not-so-great area of LA. My dad pulled to the side of the highway, but even pulled over as far as he could go, we were not very far away from the rightmost lane. Cars were flying by, rattling the car. My brother stepped out to see what tire had gone, and sure enough, it was the driver-side rear, so there was no way in hell we were going to change that tire. That’s what AAA is for–risking a roadside splattering to change tires. My dad called AAA, let them know where we were, and they said it would be approximately half an hour wait, making it one of the shortest wait times we’d experienced all day. It’s not like we had a choice. We waited while cars and trucks whipped by. I had an urge to go to the bathroom, but I figured I could hold it until we got home–I wasn’t going to venture up the embankment and into an area of LA with which I was unfamiliar by myself, at night, just for a bathroom. When the tow truck driver arrived, he immediately got to work. J and I could see the naked fear in his eyes as he went out onto the highway to jack up the car. And the car went up. And the car went down. And he asked us to put on the parking brake. And take off the parking brake. And roll forward. And the car went up. And the car went down. Clearly he was struggling. Eventually, he came to the window and said there was a lock on the center nut and there was no way for him to get the tire off; we would have to be towed, and he’d go call a tow truck with a crew cab since he couldn’t fit all four of us up with him–the wait would be about an hour. He told us that he’d never had this sort of problem with a tire before, that we were the very first. Lucky us! My dad immediately had a “What are we going to do” panic moment. We panicked silently. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Five minutes later, the tow truck driver came back to the window and said he had another guy coming who had the tools to get the tire off, and he would be there in about ten minutes. We rejoiced and continued to wait. The second driver came, and the car went up and the car went down. Up. Down. Up. Down. It seemed like they were struggling again, and then it felt like they were kicking the tire to get it to come off. Eventually, the tire was replaced with the spare (which was thankfully a full-size spare, not a doughnut), and we were back on our way. We all sighed in relief and continued the drive home, thankful that the whole ordeal was over. But then, twenty miles later, as we entered Orange County: THUPPATHUPPATHUPPA. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST,” my dad swore as we pulled over. Verdict: Passenger side rear. We were fucked. We would have to be towed now, it’s not like we carried multiple spares. My dad called AAA. “You again?” “Yeah, another flat. We have to get towed…but where?” Panic creeped into his voice again. The AAA operator explained that since he was paying for the premium package, he could be towed 100 miles, but every mile over 100 was billed at six to ten dollars per mile. Should he get his car towed back to his place? But then wouldn’t he have to get it towed again the next day to a tire dealer? But what tire dealer is open on Sundays? Were we over 100 miles from San Diego? The operator got snippy. “Sir, why don’t I just dispatch a driver and maybe by the time he shows up, you’ll have figured out what you’re going to do.” *click* She didn’t say how long it was going to take. My bladder cramped. My brother sighed and tried to melt through the seat. My dad didn’t specify that we needed a tow truck that could carry four people plus the driver. He called back. The driver who eventually showed? Could not haul all of us. What he decided to do was put the car up on his flatbed with us inside and drive us to the next exit and get us in a safer place to wait for the fourth and final tow truck. As he hooked us up, we all shared a look. This, by far, would be the scariest ride we went on all day. After we were on the flatbed, the driver came back to the window and said “Just honk if you are having any problems, ok?” GEE, OK. My dad kept his hands on the wheel as if that would do any good if we flipped off the side of the flatbed.

The driver passed the first exit. J freaked out. “Where is he taking us, he said the first exit, where are we going?” However, the first exit was to a different highway, which would have done us no good. The driver (who took corners entirely too fast for my liking, what with me all exposed and vulnerable up on a flatbed) eventually dropped us off in a strip mall in front of a taco bell with a gas station down the block on the corner. He told us that the next driver would be around to pick us up in an hour, and at those words, I sprinted down the street to the gas station, ran inside and said “OHGODINEEDTOUSEYOURBATHROOMIWILLBUYSOMETHINGPLEEEEEASE” and the operator pointed me outside and around the corner. I ran back outside, pulled down my pants as I was rushing to the toilet and experienced a moment of truly blessed relief. It was then and ONLY then did I realize there was no toilet paper. Friends, have you ever wiped with paper seat cover? I have. True to my word, I went back inside and bought some aspirin and some gum, at which point J rushed up and said “Melissa, the tow truck driver is here!” I grabbed my stuff and bolted back to the car.

^{My brother was clearly ready to go home by this point.}

The driver was really nice, we all loaded into his cab, and he said he would drop J and Andrew off at the park & ride for J’s car. J would then drive Andrew back to his car, and then meet us at the Bridgestone at Fashion Valley Mall to pick us up and go home. What a frigging day. I don’t know why we’re ever surprised when things like this happen–as soon as three or more of my family members get together, this sort of thing ALWAYS happens. Our last name is synonymous with “WHAT THE FUCK?” Now let us never speak of it again.

“Can’t get a good sarsparilla like this in Springfield–it angries up the blood!” The Cleveland National Forest

April 1, 2010 12 Comments read Attractions, California, Pacific, The Great Outdoors, Travel, USA, West

On Friday, my dad and I went hiking in the Cleveland National Forest (named after the president–no, we did not go to Ohio). It was a nice hike, though we would have absolutely deserved it if we had gotten stranded or attacked by a rabid animal as the area we went hiking in was closed, and we got to the trail by squeezing inbetween the locked gate and the barbed wire fence. For being closed, the trail was in decent shape. We only had to scramble over one fallen tree and go off-path a few times to avoid trudging through ankle-deep snow and mud.

Supposedly, on a clear day, from the top of the trail, you can see downtown San Diego and the ocean. My dad and I have decided that is a lie. There is no way, from here, that we’re seeing the ocean.

After we went hiking, we drove to the nearby town of Julian and had lunch. I’ve been there at least once before, but the only memory I had of the place was my brother throwing up en route due to the ultra-winding roads. As it turns out, there isn’t really much to remember about the place–it runs about one full block and that’s it.

One look at my placemat and I knew this was not my sort of town. God this and Jesus that and Savior the other thing. It’s a wonder my lunch wasn’t poisoned in order to send me to god’s loving arms faster, but then again, most of the clientele were doddering around in their 80s, so perhaps the owner figures there’s no sense hurrying along what’s bound to come in due course soon enough.

Look at this dazzling sidewalk display! It really makes you want to shop at the Old Julian Garage, doesn’t it? A camouflage hat AND a ‘poster’ printed on an 8.5×11″ sheet of paper! What with its tasteful displays and clever use of space, surely they have something that will fill my–oh fuck it.

I am quite certain this signpost has more signs than Julian has places to go.

I was suckered in by the store name ‘Pistols and Petticoats’.

As it turns out, they sell cheap underwear and cap guns. I had no idea that a concept could be dragged so low. Luckily, it was right next to the candy store, so we were able to fortify our blood sugar and then get the fudge out of town.

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God, schmod, I want my monkey man!

March 31, 2010 42 Comments read Attractions, California, Masticating With Mellzah, Pacific, Travel, USA, West

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.

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.

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.

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.

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:

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

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:

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.