AROUND THE WORLD VI: SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
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Five people died while I was in New York. Two murdered in the Bronx, three just collapsed from the brutal heat. Maybe a sixth from garbage juice inhalation. For once, I was more than happy to return home. Of course, with me being me and going on the types of holiday that I do, a vacation from my vacation was necessary. So the very next day, I was on a flight to Orange County with Vince.

As a complement to my Drinking Tour of the United Kingdom, this must've been the Eating Tour of Southern California. Vince's cousin Kimchi was kind enough to host us at her beachfront flat, not far from the airport, and apparently close to a lot of restaurants. Our first stop after dumping our luggage was a home-style Japanese place nearby. After living primarily on beer for days, a mild pig-out was in order. Being a Japanese place, though, chips and curry were nowhere to be found. Would my system be able to take this kind of shock? I was lucky and found curry and rice on the menu. That should ease me back into non-pub foods, right? The next day proved to be inverse, in a way. Going for some northern Vietnamese cuisine at Ha Noi in Little Saigon (confused yet?), french fried yams were my chip substitute. So far so good. Really good, actually.

The irony wasn't lost on me that it was the Fourth of July and we were going to celebrate our fierce breaking free from the country I just fell in love with again only days before. Full of fried yams, we made the 120-mile trip up to Ojai for an Independence Day party at Gary Spivey's place - you know, the world-famous TV/radio psychic. Ok, I didn't know who the hell he was either, but apparently, a bunch of other people do. Anyway, his place up the hills was nice and tranquil. And there was a big bar there for me to play bartender for other guests. And a lot of food for Vince to eat. And did I mention a bar? (Hiccup.) Oh yeah, there were goats, too. And a dog named Yoda. Yo-yo-y-yo-yoda.

"Heeey, baby. Do you believe in inter-species dating?"

"Roll over. Now sit. Good Yoda. Who's my Jedi bitch?"

"Feed Me. I must grow taller."

"If I have to be in another picture with a flash, I swear I'll gnaw someone to death."

Gary is definitely an interesting gentleman. He's about the nicest guy you can meet, and according to Vince, a dead-accurate clairvoyant. (I was dead sure he was reading all my thoughts, so I started thinking about my last night in the tent in the England, hoping the little devils and cloud of wine would jam up any mindreading.) He makes kick-ass daiquiries with gin. He's also a clever decorator, with the ultimate piece being a Napoleon mirror in the bathroom. Was it funny because the mirror portion didn't come up any higher than your chest? Or was it hilarious because any time you're standing to pee, your unit is reflected below the waist of someone who was notoriously stubby? Hanging out in the back yard, I immediately recognized English accents coming from nearby. I followed them to the source and made the acquaintance of two young ladies who happened to be from - dum dum dum - near Glastonbury. They were hanging out in the back yard, as well, you see.

As night fell on Ojai, and my head started to become cloudy without thinking back to cheap wine, it was time to head back to Orange County to continue the eating tour. Next stop: The Harbor Cafe, a very casual place with a heated ratio. What's a heated ratio? 99 women to 2 men on average? Or hiring a signmaker who doesn't know how to black out neon? Still trying to catch up with reality, I had a nap on the bench out front while we were waiting for a table. Of course, I was wide awake five minutes later, when it was time to order beer. And fish and chips.

Never believe a place that advertises a good ratio.

"Don't bother me, I'm still on Greenwich Mean Time."

"I'm awake! It's beer o'clock!"

Sure, it's a $5 shake, but where's Steve "Buddy Holly" Buscemi?

Vince and Kimchi went to crash out after our late late dinner, whereas my five minute power nap must've been enough for me. Feeling short on exercise, I figured I'd walk down the shore to the Huntington Pier, 8 o'clock beach closing time be damned. It was quiet and meditative and beautiful. The idea hit me to go and walk to the end of the pier and just zone out over the ocean, but a big iron gate stopped me. Here I was, unable to go out and enjoy nature and public property, with a banner near me that said "Celebrate Your Freedom." Not only was this the sold-out Eating Tour of Southern California, but this hot new band named Irony was the opening act. I headed back to finally get a full night's sleep. After another cerveza.

The next day began with a trip to a candy store. Go figure. But this was no ordinary candy place. This palace of confections featured all sorts of hand-crafted (read: expensive) candies. And British food that was too heavy for me to bring over in luggage: bottles of HP brown sauce, tins of Heinz tomato soup and baked beans. Perfect. Now I had souvenirs for everyone who had their room in my bag supplanted by my haul of t-shirts. With all sorts of teeth-rotting goodies bagged up, it was off to Fred's Mexican Cantina. Sounds authentic, doesn't it? Who cares! They have an outdoor veranda and big ol' margaritas. And good nachos. Overall, quite a good experience. I'd have to be back sometime.

There was some sort of arts fair going on near the beach, so we had to check it out. Among the crappy crafts that you see at every one of these things across the country, there was a henna tattoo booth. Kimchi got a couple of tribals. I got a (too) small dragon. Vince wanted the Chinese character for "tranquility," but they didn't have it. So much for his dreams of the NBA! They have a Kanji tattoo requirement in all the contracts now, you know. After I get drafted by the Clippers, I'll be getting one that says "5'7 is tall for a half Jap, muthafukka." But for now, this weenie dragon had to do. Because brown tattoos work so well on dark skin. Am I rambling? Maybe I need to relax... Which is precisely what we did. Sure, there was a beach right in front of the place, but why not take advantage of a spa, shielded from the wind, sporting a bubbly jacuzzi, and the biggest benefit: no sand where it shouldn't be. Naturally, when one is sun-soaked and margarita-addled, one tends to forget that some pictures are simply not fit for web consumption. The following photos are presented in un-enlargable form, as they reveal too much skin of people I actually know. (Strangers do not get such amnesty on my page.)

I kinda forgot to roll my trunks back down before this picture. White thghs! Ewwww.

You remember that episode of Emergency 911 where the guy got stuck in a hotel jacuzzi jet?

"You're going to crop this at the neck, right?" Oops.

Ok, this one you can blow up all you want. Go nuts, man.

So after posing for our failed shoot for the next SI swimsuit issue, guess what? We were hungry again. Off we went to the suburban mecca known as the Irvine Spectrum. Not only could we see Minority Report there, but we had a lot of choices of places to eat. We chose wrong. There's a semi-fancy, über-trendy Japanese joint called Maki at the Spectrum. Don't go there. The food sucked. There was a lot of it, but it sucked. The wannabe signature drinks sucked, too. An apple martini made with sake is only good the first couple of sips. By the time you hit that third sip, all novelty has worn off, and your sushi just tastes bad after it. I was lucky, though, in that I ordered one of the cheapest items on the menu for myself - the spicy tuna bowl ($9.95)- which was actually the only good item they had. Even their basic tamago (egg) sucked. Suck-diddly-ucked, like Flanders. Even the Hollywoodized-by-Spielberg™ last quarter of MR was better than this place.

Another day, another eating adventure. We awoke to yet another perfect Southern California day, with a slight breeze and plenty of sun. It was nice enough just hanging at Kimchi's apartment, but there wasn't a buffet in there. We'd been talking about it for the last few days, so we finally did it. We headed to Green Field in Seal Beach. Despite its nondescript name lacking any sort of exotic charm, the place is a Brazilian churrascaria. That means the smiling cow in the restaurant's logo (not visible unless you click the pic on the right) is just a ruse. The cow should be looking at you in horror, knowing that after you enter the restaurant, you're going to eat him and 70 of his closest friends in one sitting. And then some. Here's how one of these joints works: You have your standard buffet, this one featuring typical "side" dishes like rice, potatoes, salad, etc., along with some Brazilian specialties like stewed tongue (eww), fried bananas (yum!), and super-garlicky calamari (burp). Main courses are brought to you non-stop, until you signal stop. You get this little stoplight like device, green on one end, red on the other, and as long as you have the green end up, they just keep bringing you skewer after hot skewer of grilled meats, poultry, and sausages. You don't realize what sort of damage you're inflicting on your system, because the caipirinha - a potent mix of sugarcane liqueur over lime and sugar - numbs you so well. Numerous animal carcasses later, we were stuffed. I could barely walk, and Vince, who's normally a beanpole, looked as though he was rounding the corner into the second trimester.

Bloated and in pain, we walked it off at the mall, knowing full well that we couldn't inflict much financial damage if we couldn't fit into any of the clothes we tried on. This is a pretty decent money-saving strategy if you can find a cheap enough churrascaria to offset your shopping habit. Unfortunately, this strategy didn't work at our next stop - Best Buy - where they had lots of CDs on sale. At least I wasn't spending my money on food, right? I picked up a couple of good discs, but in the process, I somehow convinced myself that $9.99 was a reasonable price to pay for the new Eminem album. Besides the first spin, I've listened to about 10 minutes of it. Realizing that we were spending money on things that wouldn't make us fat, we made a run for Jamba Juice. It's amazing what peer pressure will do to you, isn't it? We vowed that this was the last of the food. I had to get some exercise, so I went running along the beach, enjoying a glorious sunset, cursing my newly expanded waistline. Then I attempted to boil the calories off in the jacuzzi.

I came back to the apartment and caught Vince and Kimchi red-handed: looking over a Thai food delivery menu. Not half an hour later, we were eating hot & sour soup, curry, vegetables, and rice. It was so good, I ignored the fact that I was completely full. Or that the button on my jeans had gone flying into the living room wall, making a dent the size of a fist with the impact. Just kidding. It was only nickel-sized. A couple of hours later, Sarah came down from, like, the Valley. I hadn't seen her for a while, and in the meantime I had been talking about how much weight I'd been losing. So I know when I went downstairs to meet her, she thought, "Who's this fat fuck with the missing jeans button and Thai curry dribbled all over his shirt?" She was just too sweet to say that. Instead, she asked if we could go somewhere to eat. I figured as long as we went somewhere with drinks, it'd be cool. Kimchi & Vince, already lounging in their jammies, sent us off to Main Street, Vince with a box of crackers in hand. We were back less than half an hour later. No bar/restaurant would let us in anymore, as they were supposedly filled to capacity. Not even Fred's, where I said I'd come back to. Well, forget it. I'm never going back there again. In fact, I started to remember why Orange County sucks, nightlife wise. Fortunately, there was a Taco Bell downstairs and a liquor store on the way back to the apartment. So with a bag of TB and a six-pack, we went back to the apartment and kicked it old school. Or is it high school? Fucking Orange County.

The next day, we all woke up rather late, and with a flight out in the afternoon, it meant we had just barely enough time to go out - and have lunch. We two-carred it to an eatery, and I opted to ride in the convertible. I was in SoCal, dammit! The choice this time was some French/Vietnamese place in Westminster, and it was quite good. How I squeezed another meal into my body is beyond me, but it was enjoyable nonetheless. By meal's end, flight time was approaching. Vince stuck to the schedule, but I swapped out for a later flight for a bit more hangout time - hopefully not spent eating. Kimchi was taking the V-man back to the airport; with her going on a long vacation to China a couple of days later, we all agreed that should anything happen by some chance, the rest of us would gladly take care of her beachfront apartment. Volunteering for a cause never felt so good. (Ok, we were totally kidding around, and she's made it back safely since then, so you sensitive people out there, get over it.)

We decided to just take it easy and hang out near the ocean at Balboa, in that boardwalky area with the cheesy carnival rides and cheap sunglass shops. I was somewhat surprised I didn't have to be rolled along the sidewalk at this point. All I consumed was an iced coffee. Then it was back to Costa Mesa. We went to the shopping mall, and laughed at all the shoppers (5 points for anyone who gets that reference). Now I don't know why I'm admitting this publicly, but the day before, I had gone into the Sanrio store there and scoped out all this funny Hello Kitty stuff where she's tan, like a Hawaiian or something. (It was Kimchi's idea, ok?) So we had to go there and get a picture of Sarah with Tan Kitty. Hanging at the mall, not giving a damn about anything, and not bursting from eating, and a while later, hanging out at the airport, yakking on the seats while waiting for my flight to start boarding - finally, my vacation was completely relaxing.

And before I knew it, it was over. Which makes me look forward to the next one even more.

Back to the front!