The Best Western de Anza Inn in Monterey is where we’d all live if the world was full of shitty motels. On the phone, they touted their accommodations: cable TV in every room (free HBO), free wireless Internet, free breakfast, great location and beautiful rooms. My room had a couch and an easy chair, but the shower leaked non-stop and there were only 2 local TV stations. Don’t even bother with the Internet. I had to sit in the lobby alone at 2am with the goldfish swimming around their little pond just to shoot off e-mails to Jeff Cantu and Jim Redd from Tarentel.
The good thing about stops in Independence, Tulsa, Abilene and Monterey are that they afford me perfect opportunities to write. I have these composition notebooks that I fill with every detail of each day. I hashed out fifteen pages on the 48 hours I spent in LA. Every single glimpse or word I remember is now committed to record.
An emerging pattern that I’ve noticed along this route is my attempt to find the perfect breakfast. As a self-proclaimed “picky eater” who normally eats one meal a day, breakfast is usually my only food intake each day (aside from the In-N-Out in LA). I’ve yet to be fully satisfied by a morning meal, and today was no exception.
The Breakfast Club sits in the corner of a tiny strip mall located in Seaside, a town that neighbors Monterey. The waitresses are all clones. Blonde hair in ponytails with short shorts and low-cut tank tops. The meal was okay, the service was poor. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for that girl Lauren from Saddle Ranch to serve breakfast somewhere decent. It’d be the perfect combination of entertainment and culinary expertise. I can’t get her voice out of my head. Her “You’re Welcome” delivery, with the emphasis on “you’re” sounding like a insult being thrown at you.
The drive was uneventful. I skipped Pebble Beach, because ten years ago I had the opportunity to not only drive around the area, but we were treated to lunch in the clubhouse, I think. We were treated to lunch somewhere, it might not have been the clubhouse. There were long stretches of golden hills surrounding US-101. I drove by Stanford and Palo Alto. I passed UC Berkeley, and shortly after 1pm I arrived in San Francisco.
My first stop was Aquarius Records, which came highly recommended by Sam. He said it was one of the oldest independent music stores in the country. Their selection was pretty great, their used section was the finest I’ve ever seen. I utilized this rare (and cheap!) opportunity to focus on scooping up albums I’ve either lost, sold or never gotten around to buying before:
The Flaming Lips – The Soft Bulletin
Bright Eyes – Fevers and Mirrors
Tarentel – From Bone to Satellite
Deftones – White Pony
Public Image Ltd. – Second Edition
Gary Higgins – Red Hash
From Aquarius, I walked around the Mission for a while before I drove to Towns End and experienced the water, SBC Park during the tail-end of a Giants game, the bay bridge, pier 39, some local parks and the surrounding neighborhood.
one , two , three , four , five , six .
When I was finished walking through buildings and various stores, I began my drive to Nob Hill, the area where Jen and her roommate Monica live. She called to tell me where they were, and talked me through the drive. I parked in an overnight lot (conveniently leaving my camera behind, hence no photos right now) and we headed to their apartment. For a while, we hung around and talked about a variety of topics.
We got a quick bite at a diner called Lori’s. As we exited the diner, a woman stopped me on the corner of the street and pointed at my t-shirt.
“Livingston Recreation. Is that New Jersey?”
“Yeah, it is!” I responded.
It turns out that the woman, Joan, grew up in Livingston. She asked what I was doing so far from home so I told her about the book. She said it sounded incredible, and asked if she would be reading about me in the West Essex Tribune. We talked about where in town we live(d). I told her I grew up across from the mall. She knew exactly where. She grew up on Bennington. She asked what year I graduated and I said ’01. She told me I was a baby, and produced her old NJ driver’s license from her wallet. I told her I would eschew asking what year she graduated because it was the polite thing to do, but she responded by laughing and stating, “Class of ’73.” We concluded our talk when she told me she was going back to New Jersey in three weeks, and should she find my mom and tell her I’m alright. We laughed, wished each other safe travels and went our separate ways.
We three, Jen, Monica and I returned to the apartment and had some drinks before going out to a karaoke bar. The place was packed, according to the two of them. Monica got up and sang “What’s Goin’ On” and another song. Jen sang “#1 Crush” and “One Line.” I got nervous and chose not to sing at all.
