Stay classy, San Diego.

Despite Southwest’s soul-shattering incompetence and blatantly malicious delay tactics, I have returned to the one and only Bay Area safely, if not punctually. I shouldn’t complain, I suppose; This is the risk one takes when flying Southwest, the Greyhound of the Skies. I suppose a two hour delay was to be expected, since the weather in San Diego was an atrocious 70 degree dead calm.

My heart is not in these jibes, however. Truthfully, I didn’t give a shit. You’re telling me I have to sit an extra hour in a well-lit, dry place and read my book where I won’t be bothered? What do I care? I love to fly; I can enjoy all the anonymity and isolation of a busy public place while seeing cool cityscapes, reading, and eating free peanuts. If Great America had rides like that, maybe I could spend more than 12 minutes inside without wanting to stab myself to death with something rusty. I imagine my airport experiences to be quite different from the average; my friends, especially the female ones, always talk about meeting random people and yapping with them for hours. They describe this experience with a mix of excitement and disdain, the balance tipping one way or the other depending on their level of interest in the other person. I, on the other hand, lack whatever characteristic it is that makes people approachable. I may be the most sociable anti-socialite I know, yet I somehow manage to slip beneath the traveling public’s collective radar. Which is great. Plus, flying really adds a finality, a sort of definite punctuation, to a trip. I know exactly when my enjoyable weekend began and ended, because it’s the time marked on my boarding pass (plus 2 hours, you late assholes).

San Diego was, as always, a hoot. Although I make no mistake about my absolute loathing for L.A. and its surrounding regions (i.e. south of Santa Barbara until about Camp Pendleton) and routinely wish that entire hive of scum and villainy would crash into the purifying waters of the Pacific, San Diego is still fun enough to deserve escaping this terrible fate. Granted, a good 90% of the population is ridonkulously boring clones that dress, talk, and act so similarly they are completely interchangeable. Granted, I fucking hate rich white people and much of SD is like a more wholesome and wealthy version of Pleasantville. Granted, the Chargers are crap and would lose to a women’s Under 15 flag football team by at least two touchdowns assuming such a game could ever be arranged. In light of all these glaring failures, however, San Diego is still decently cool. Good bands, excellent restaurants, pristine weather, a dope ass bomb diggity samba club at Cafe Sevilla, and of course my friends all do a good deal to offset the problems of the region. Alone, the ridiculousness of 4000 guys wearing the same dickies shorts, reversed and flat-brimmed meshback hat, and flame tattoos would overwhelm me in seconds and I would spontaneously combust. Traveling in a group of friends with finely tuned senses of humor, however, makes the experience not only bearable but enjoyable. We can shake our collective heads and joke relentlessly about the sprawling SoCal Blonde Horde, safe within the walls of our staggering intelligence, wit, and judgment. So much fun.

Finally, we, well I suppose just “I”, cannot shower enough praise upon my hosts/hostesses in the south. The Wheeze (aka P.I.M.Pete aka Shanky McSausagefingers) and Couev (aka Carousel Chris aka The Stump), my brothers in arms through many a dark hour, leered and lusted and bantered with me all up and down the streets of P.B., making me nostalgic for our glory days back in Tenaya. Jo, who will henceforth referred to as Empress Jolene, Ruler of the Southern Sands and Prime Ministress of Fun, did more than her share to make me enjoy myself. She not only showed me a good time and came through in many clutch restaurant-choosing moments of chaos and danger, she had the good taste and foresight to room with easily the coolest chicks for several hundred miles around. It takes a lot, in fact it takes a god damn bulldozer made of special alloys (50% Steel, 20% Titanium, 30% cool) and fueled by pure unrefined kickass to get me to take back some of my bitterness against the female race, and these ladies did it. In a land where trashy chicks are a dime a dozen and intelligent, cool girls are as rare and as underground as Clippers fans, The Empress has gathered a veritable host of feminine awesomeness in her home. They tower over the rest like a redwood trees in a grassy field. Fuck that, like redwood trees on a putting green. Keep up the good work, ladies, you’re fighting the good fight.

Now, I suppose it’s time to bring my head down out of the clouds and prepare myself for the harsh realities of traffic, technical support, and fog. Se la vie. It’s good to be home, I suppose. But not that good. A few hours of sleep and this entire weekend of festivity, alcohol, and dancing will seem like a faded dream. My sunburn will heal and my teeth will start to grind again. Fuck it, it was fun while it lasted. With that, I’m gone.

peathe out.



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