Out west, things are done differently. Out here, the days are always beautiful and inviting. We do not live on work alone; we seek out fun and entertain ourselves with the spontaneity befitting the movie star lifestyle we deserve for being children of the sun. Do not put it past us to simply pick up and fling ourselves at frivolity. So began this day as Joe and Rainy joined me on a midweek excursion to find a path off the hamster wheel.
Next stop, California. We need some green, and our desert isn’t supplying the kind of green we need. Some may think this an allusion to a particular medicinal alleviator that California has adopted as a kind of cure to malaise, but you would be wrongly assumptive in your conclusion. We are opting for other shades of pleasure, beginning with a stop at Ten Ren Tea Shop for boba green tea with green apple syrup amongst the green hills of Rowland Heights. Still searching for greener pastures far away from the land of cactus, we push on into the interior of this la-la land of indulgence. Entering the other world of Little Tokyo, we whet our palates to the exotic flavors of the Orient, satisfying a need for munchies with the tasty morsel known as the Imagawayaki – to the uninitiated, I will spare you the gory details of where and how this came to pass.
Out of Asia into the central core and heart of primal Los Angeles, home of the people who celebrate the holy encounter with the Day of the Dead – we step into the 1781 barrio of the angels, Olvera Street. In this mystic enclave, we find wondrous rapture as cultures entangle to transform our experience of visiting California into one of becoming California.
We emerge beholden to forces we cannot fully comprehend. Changed in form, we venture further into the depths of the exultant liberties of freedom in this land of anything goes. Our journey has become a quest, and we will explore deeper questions and find meaning through the enlightenment granted to those who don The Mask. Precious few have gone before us; the physical strength of endurance rarely witnessed by the public eye but oft seen on late-night Lucha Libre broadcasts from across the border carries us on into the maelstrom of metal L.A.
Dancing into Chinatown anonymous and hidden behind the mask, our stealth moves secret us through passages of carnal pleasure with entreaties made by the racks of goods beckoning the green from our wallet to indulge our cheap consumer egos where a good deal pushes the buttons of ecstasy. We oblige with ruthless haggling, overwhelming shop owners with our mad negotiating tactics to the point of nearly paying us to leave with their merchandise – we score a kill and move to the next vendor who wilts beneath our mighty powers. Viva la Mask.
Ah, more greenery. Los Angeles is kind to us. The high rises and stoned facades give this metropolis a gleam that only half-baked eyes would fail to be overwhelmed with. A dispensary of wicked charm has graced the city like fog moving in to clean away the haze, leaving behind a lucid clarity of mental fecundity found after a long journey through a dark pipe before emerging into the light. Moments later, our waiting carriage is revved up and ripping across blazing highways of perma fun, taking us to the next level of munchy cultivation.
The food is barely greasier than this old sign. No matter to us. We are peaking in our state of nirvana. The bright day-glow orange of Oki Dog only works to elevate our senses of having reached the promised land. If the food doesn’t kill us, we will belch stronger; this new Nietzschean maxim will someday adorn future legions of Oki aficionados standing in amazement that a generation of Americans never knew the pleasures of a chile-laden pastrami veggie pickle and mustard super burrito that eventually supplanted the boring old Big Mac as a Force Majeure.
Now watch how the sinful pleasures of the Oki delight the senses. Peer on to the lips as succulent fat drips and smears into a frothy lather like a beard of chunky lard over the flesh. Skin rises in delight at the opulence befalling the olfactory and richly stimulated taste buds that whisk one to the boundary of what was previously insatiable culinary desire. Rainy wipes her chin and dips in for another bite, finding the depths of a chilling extravagance never thought possible from a roadside grimy shack that deceptively hid away this epicurean treasure. To die right now from heart disease would seal a life that has worshiped at this Church of Perfection.
Gullets full the time was upon us to lay pilgrimage to the street shrine of our mentor – no, not Scientology and L. Ron Hubbard. No, our homage is aimed at far loftier heights, the deity of our admiration rests upon the nonsensical, the whimsical, the poetic – behold the temple of Dr. Seuss. We prostrate our unworthy selves before you and lie down in respect that you have attained this status of worldly honor where a star on the Walk of Fame has been created for all of us to pray in deference with the Seussian mantra that, “Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is you-er than you.”.
As we sit street-side alit from a day that was all that a day should be, a moment of bereavement weighs upon our thoughts – we are about to depart Los Angeles for a return to the valley of the sun and our scorched earth home of Phoenix, Arizona. The road ahead is long, with much darkness enshrouding the way. The bleaching desert sun will shrivel our brains to try and make us forget this perfect day of metal mayhem and decadence, but in our hearts will beat the shriveled memory that for a few hours one day, we stepped off the hamster wheel and exposed ourselves to fun. To close, I quote once again, Dr. Seuss: If you never did, you should. These things are fun, and fun is good.
