SPRINGTIME IS THE SEASON

Recently, I remembered a debate I had with a friend regarding which season is best.

At the time, I regarded autumn highest of all. Certainly, those who favor autumn have enough evidence to construct a great argument. For instance, autumn has the best holiday of the entire year and one of the few I actually look forward to—Thanksgiving. Leaves don't really turn color in Los Angeles though, so I've never been able to enjoy the autumn aesthetic to the fullest extent. Foliage certainly plays a large factor in choosing a favorite season. So does weather... If I'm not able to wear a hoodie, it's just not a good day.

Today, while attending a UCLA baseball game, I adamantly told my friends that how much I love spring.

Kevin Barnes said it best: "No matter how you die through winter, in spring you're born again; Your life might not be going good, but spring time helps you pretend." I love Kevin Barnes, but that's a little dramatic. Coming from me, that says a lot.

Spring has it all. Sports enthusiasts enjoy March Madness, the Stanley Cup Playoffs, and opening day for baseball. Everyone except those with outdoor allergies enjoy all the plants in bloom. Aside from Thanksgiving, my favorite holidays are those designated exclusively to drinking. To my knowledge, there are five: New Year's Eve, Mardi Gras*, St. Patrick's Day, Cinco de Mayo and Fourth of July. Of course, of the five, three are in spring. And every student looks forward to Spring Break. And who wouldn't love a week during which they travel to some sunny destination: Las Vegas, South Beach, or, best of all, Cabo San Lucas.

Well... There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: irrefutable evidence that spring truly is the best season.

*I tried to put these into chronological order, but, of course, Catholic holidays are decided by the most complex, arbitrarily decided-upon algorithm, so Mardi Gras doesn't have a fixed date. Easter is the first Sunday after the fourteenth day of the lunar month that falls on or after 21st March. (Yes, that was a question in every religion class I've ever had.) And, Ash Wednesday is forty days prior to that. And, of course, Fat Tuesday is the day before Ash Wednesday.

I CAN'T DRIVE 55

As I sit here on this beautiful Sunday afternoon drinking an ice cold Rolling Rock (don't judge me, I'm still on vacation), reflecting on the best Spring Break I've ever had (during which I visited Sonoma, San Francisco, Berkeley, and Monterey Bay), I can't help but smile—not because I saw some of the most beautiful cities in Northern California, but because I am not a felon.

I'll preface this story by saying I am now a certified speed demon. I really can't drive 55 m.p.h.

I drove almost 1300 miles during the past week. I'm not complaining because I had a great vacation (and am now moving to San Francisco as soon as humanly possible), but it would have been nice to have traversed a more efficient route. I went from Los Angeles to Sonoma to Monterey to Berkeley to San Francisco back to Berkeley back to Monterey before returning home.

Needless to say, after all that driving, I just wanted some rest. So, last night I was driving 125 m.p.h. on a good portion of the Southbound 101.

Luckily, when that white flash passed before Officer E. Moore's eyes on that dark, deserted freeway, his radar gun read only 103 m.p.h.

Lights flashing and sirens blaring, he pulled me off to the side of the road.

"Good evening, officer," I said, handing him my license and registration, knowing I committed a felony and could resultantly be facing impound fees no less than $9000 and, God forbid, spending a few nights in some shabby motel in King City, CA.

"I pulled you over for exceeding the posted speed limit," was his reply. I wished he would have exchanged pleasantries with me. Since he didn't, I figured right then and there I was probably fucked.

"How fast were you going?" he asked. I replied, "About 95 to 100 m.p.h." So, he told me: "I'd like you to know that exceeding speeds of 100 m.p.h. is a felony and I saw you going 103 m.p.h..."

I thought to myself: Damn, I'd had loved for a cop to tell me he gunned me at 125 m.p.h.

But that's when things took an unexpected and most fortunate turn.

"...but I'm a fair man, and I reward honesty."

I didn't know exactly how, but I knew he was going to let me off the hook.

"I have to cite you, but I'll say you were going 95 m.p.h so you don't face felony charges."

I breathed a huge sigh of relief and said, "Thanks, officer. I really appreciate it, sir."

I'd like to add that I only learned one thing from my thirteen years at Catholic school: you must appease authority figures, and the easiest way to appease them is through courtesy. Sirs, ma'ams, thank-yous, and I-appreciate-its always come in handy.

He handed me my ticket, and I was on my merry way.

So, this beer's for you, California Highway Patrolman Moore. Thanks to you, for the duration of my travels, I drove at the snail's pace of 99 m.p.h. to avoid anymore felony run-ins.

Cheers!

(If any frequent readers are wondering where the picture is, I haven't gotten a chance to scan my ticket yet.)

MAGAZINES

Dear Yasi,

I wanted to write to tell you that I no longer had any interest in the your trite, pithy blog, but I cannot.

My intention was to write a dramatic post bemoaning the fact that you haven't answered my question, but I cannot.

The truth is that I still love your blog.

Though I think I would be justified in being upset that you didn't answer my question-you ridicule the people whose woefully misspelled ramblings demonstrate not even the slightest mastery of the English language (which you seem to view with a certain level of reverence).

Alas, I digress.

I'd just like to assure you with all sincerity that I still admire you for your sarcasm and intellect. I love your insight and your perspective. I respect your taste in music, literature, art, fashion and fine dining (I am certain that I love burritos more than you do). I was fairly certain that you'd appreciate that, but perhaps I was mistaken.

Like you, I pepper my flawless taste in music with a few guilty pleasures. For instance, "Magazines" and "Failure by Design" probably rank among my twenty-five favorite songs. So, I leave you with some lyrics:

You destroy me,

So I can't see why I feel so lonely,

When you and me could be, forever,

Perfectly perfect together, I know.

[...]

My friends all call me crazy,

'Cause I stay up late, anticipating,

And planning for the day I sweep you,

Off your feet, I'd never leave you alone.

Hopelessly devoted,

Darren

NOTHING BUT SUNSHINE

Photo: Haines Hall, UCLA

I hate to admit it, but life is great.

I have been on a staggering consortium of drugs lately, but, at the same time, I feel an alarming attitudinal change has occurred.

Today, I went to work, went to the brew store in Culver City, had dinner at Tito's Tacos, got drunk, and brewed a new creation: the Baked Alaska Brown Ale. Brewing is great, such an interesting process that I'm beginning to understand a little better.

Oh yeah, and I got paid by the library.

Fate's even smiling on Segal lately, who found $16 in the middle of the street (which he generously used to fund a Tito's Tacos run) among other things.

Also, I don't have class either Wednesday or Friday next term... I'm taking Phil 137 which is at some level daunting (both the subject material and the potential to run into a certain staggeringly pretty tutor who rejected me), but on the other hand, a simple formula (go to Ed) for an A... I can't think of many scenarios better than that.

Oh wait, yes I can.

This Spring Break I'm going to visit friends in places (Monterey Bay, Santa Cruz(?), San Francisco, Berkeley, and Rohnert Park) I've wanted to go for a few years. Now that I (finally) have a car at school and a considerable bank roll, this trip is full-go and is happening in three weeks.

Like I said... "Nothing but Sunshine".

Here's to the next three weeks.

And Alice in Wonderland tomorrow-I really hope it's a winner.

BREAK ON THROUGH (TO THE OTHER SIDE)

I am currently (and by currently I mean 4:04 am on Saturday, 27th February, year of our Lord 2010) listening to The Doors' 1967 self-titled debut album on my homie Shather's parents' living room floor while they're out of town.

The question remains: exactly which state of affairs brought this about?

Funny you should ask.

This question spurs two interesting answers: the first involves a shameless plug and the second is the re-telling of the causal series that resulted in interpreting "The End" in an entirely new light.

In spite of the fact none of you even noticed, I feel I've perfected the layout of this blog. The titles of all my posts reflect my love for such bands as The Doors and The Smiths (I promise I will get more creative with them at some point, I'm just on the Doors-and-Smiths tip right now). Naming my posts after songs written and performed by the aforementioned bands reveals a certain aspect of the something I speak about in the post. I try to use the image in the same way as the titles: to give further insight to the post.

That being said, take another look at the image in this post.

(Not to mention the flawless color scheme. Or the change in titles [I realized meandering describes these musings much more accurately, and with equal alliteration]. Or the black background--seriously, whose blog is black lettering on a white background? You may as well stare into a light bulb. Alas, I'm off topic.)

This night, which featured not only Jimi Hendrix Live at Woodstock, but a conversation of the linguistic origin of the phrase Friendly people don't go banging on garage doors all started with an afternoon trip to El Tepeyac Cafe for their world famous Hollenbeck burrito (if you've never been, I cannot recommend it highly enough: in the words of Ferris Bueller, it is so choice).

As my parents are out of town for the weekend, I came home to watch my dog Bella. I had been trying to get in touch with a friend Stephen, with whom I haven't spoken since around Christmas. I had thought to myself on a few occasions, I ought to call Stahly to see if Steve changed his number, but had never actually done it.

Having forgotten about it, I called Steve earlier today, getting the message that the number had, in fact, changed. So I was compelled to give Stahly a call, and, in doing so, sealed my fate.

"Darren!" he exclaimed. I inquired about Steve's number, and he told me they were together.

"How'd you like to take a trip?" he asked.

I couldn't resist.

I expected to be at least somewhat displeased by their taste, but, to my surprise, discovered they were rather tasteless.

(Tangentially, after listening to The Doors I've begun listening to Revolver. I loved Yasi's latest post [though it, once again, was not in answer to my question] which made reference to The Beatles.)

People have asked me to describe the trip and the only word I could think of was indescribable though I somehow don't think that answer quite suffices. Visual perception is distorted in ways I never thought possible. The walls at Mike's place were wood paneled, and so the knots in the wood were quite visually stimulating. He also had some sort of side-winding fish in a psychedelic tank... Which was almost as trippy as holding his ball python! I let it wrap around my arm, and admired its coloration and its scale pattern. Beyond that and the undulating popcorn ceiling, there wasn't much to the visual aspect of my trip.

It really had a profound mental effect, and I still feel it today. For the first time in a very long while, I felt at peace. And I still do now.

Psychedelic trips have the potential to change your life.

I implore you, if you are at all interested, to break (on) through.

As for the funny stuff, here are some highlights:

Jeopardy and the "Devil Kid": We watched Jeopardy, and, perhaps because we were tripping, one of the contestants looked very demonic, and honestly, quite frightening. We commented on it throughout the Jeopardy and Double Jeopardy rounds, but during Final Jeopardy, with a total of $400, he wagered $266, bringing his total to... $666. What a weirdo.

The R2-D2 Cooler: Shather's dad works for PepsiCo, who manufactured an R2-D2 cooler to promote Star Wars Episode III, and had it in his garage. His friend (whose name I cannot recall) asked, "How much for that cooler?" Shather replied, "It's going for five hundred bucks on Ebay." "Five hundred? I'll give you three-fifty for it." "Nah." "Dude, you could put beers in there!" "I know."

Bill and Ted: We watched Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, but paused "mid-lion" (while the MGM lion was roaring).