“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.

Blasting across the alpine hills in a jet-powered, monkey-navigated tube

February 3, 2010 35 Comments read Attractions, Pacific, The Great Outdoors, Travel, USA, Washington, West

On Sunday, I went tubing with Tristan, because we both agree that skiing and snowboarding sound like a lot of work, but that sliding downhill at high speed on our stomachs should be completely doable.

Two out of the last three weekends, I have had to sign documents promising not to sue if I break my face. This is a good trend, I think. We ended up getting there with quite a lot of time to spare, and instead of standing around in the snow for an hour like schmucks, we hiked up to the ski lodge and hit up the bar at ten am.

Gin & tonic & mac & cheese: truly the breakfast of champions. The bartender was maybe a little heavy-handed for ten in the morning, but I can hardly fault him. By the time we hit the snow, I was already toasty warm inside.

We were maybe a little apprehensive about flinging ourselves downhill on a tube; after all, they wouldn’t have us sign a waiver unless there was actual danger involved, right? What if the abominable snowman doesn’t just go after skiers but instead enjoys snacking on the easier prey of adults on less-maneuverable tubes, swelled with dairy and starches and too drunk to run away? Worse, what if we enjoy it so much we end up concocting a special tubing uniform like this guy?

The only way I can describe this outfit is: A clown ate crayons until he exploded, and a passing unicorn was so amazed by the sight that HE exploded, too. We oughtn’t have worried–flinging ourselves downhill was insanely fun, even better as adults than we remembered as midwest tykes. We conducted a series of experiments as to which position led to the fastest and furthest ride and didn’t come to any official conclusions, but unofficially, flinging yourself onto the tube, superman-style (belly down, legs out or up, arms extended) was the most fun, knees into the hole of the tube was probably the most dangerous (Tristan flipped his tube, to the raucous laughter of us all), and on your back looking up at the sky FELT most dangerous but actually got a shorter overall distance owing to not being able to run and dive onto the tube with any great accuracy. About half the time, we trudged back up the hill on foot, and half the time we took the tow. We probably could have gotten more rides in during our two-hour block if we’d trudged up every time, but then I might have died.

This is my ‘I’m boozed up and overstimulated’ face. The two hours positively flew by, but at the end, I was surprised at just how worn out I was–it didn’t seem like we’d done anything worthy of the term ‘exercise’ but my body told me otherwise. Everyone else seemed to be running out of steam as well. Tubes were being abandoned at the bottom of the hill and I ricocheted off one and nearly flew off my tube. A kid who didn’t want to hike back up the hill threw snow at his dad’s camera and the dad lost his shit. The employees were perky as ever, cracking jokes, asking us if we had fun, saying they hoped we would come back…it was really nice. On the way home, we loudly sang along to the Rocky Horror soundtrack, maaaaybe drawing stares from passing cars. Maybe.

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