@

Redlands, CA
2/24/2011

I wake up to an empty home. I clean up and get a call from Barnhart sometime before lunch. He’s coming to pick me up; he doesn’t want me or anyone to be around when Gigi’s mom comes back to the house. I ask him why, and he tells me about this time when she walked in on him having a threesome with Gigi in her bedroom. It’s been awkward ever since.

He takes me on a random drive around town. While on the road, he asks me how wild he thought things would get while I’m out here. I didn’t really know what he was getting at. Before we parked the truck on an open strip of road somewhere, Barnhart tells me that Al Gore bought up a bunch of property in this area.

I had to put the pieces together myself, and despite my comfort in drug procurements, meth is not pot, and your average meth dealer is not a cool hippy-type. They’re criminally-charged, deranged, and insecure.

We’re two white guys with North Face jackets and jeans walking through a suburban jungle. Barnhart walks alongside me with his 64-ounce cup of diet coke, telling me about the nature of fear. He must have smelled it on me… He tries to reassure me by saying “you need to control that fear, and not be controlled by it.” As insane as that sounds, walking together through this dangerous neighborhood, I get the idea.

“Look at the pictures on my phone, and go walk down to that red car over there and see if anyone’s inside.” We approach a corner, and he points to the red car with tinted windows at the end of the street, 500 yards away. I ask him “I can’t go in with you?” and he says “No, but I’ll be quick, in and out, before you’re back.”

I take his phone and begin snapping pictures with it. I lose my fear of the neighborhood as my artistic eye dilates. In this neighborhood, many things are worth photographing. An American flag is torn and twisted up in a gated fence, surrounded by tropical brush, palm trees, and overgrown garden décor. I had just snapped a picture of the American flag.

A man who looks like a biker with black sunglasses on appears behind the fence, breaking through the jungle of tree brush that made up his backyard. “Excuse me; are you taking pictures with that phone right here? If you are, you’re gonna’ stop right now.” Barnhart appears from around the front of the house, takes his phone back, and says, laughing, “Dude, you can’t be taking pictures out here.”

“If he takes anymore pictures, I’m gonna’ have to knock his ass out.” Barnhart’s voice flutters as he says “it’s alright, I’m deleting them.” The biker asks me “what are you doing here?” and Barnhart replies for me, “He’s with me.” I say “I’m just along for the ride” and the biker says, “ride’s over; now get the fuck out of here.”

“Don’t ever put me in that position again,” I tell Barnhart when we get back to the truck. We sit there a few minutes to hash out the last ten. He tells me I have nothing to worry about, because “he knows me.” The rest of the ride was relatively quiet, aside from Barnhart’s reassuring comments about drugs in California.

We go back to his place on Olive Street, and I put on a James Bond flick. Barnhart disappears into his bedroom to smoke his meth. I watch him. He digs deep into the folds of his ass to pull out a tiny ball of saran wrap. He carefully cracks it open to examine the product and sets it down on a book while he shuffles round for his pipe. His pipe looks like a ball lollipop, discolored by smoke and resin. The ball is blackened under a point where the meth is deposited. He picks up the delicate collection of white and drops about a third of it into the ball. He shakes it around to make a small island of meth. He sparks a flame, and before he smokes it, says “you might want to try this, it’ll clear your sinuses right up.” He then proceeds to hold the flame for several seconds under the pipe and inhales a thick cloud of white smoke.

He smoked that little island of meth twice, rotating the ball in his hand, burning all the resin inside. And then he proceeded to work on his website. I lost sight of him as I watched the movie and passed out an hour in. I wake up around six, and Barnhart is still plugging away. Without looking away from his laptop, he tells me we’re picking up Gigi after work and going to a place called Eureka!Burger for dinner. My spirits are lifted; I love burger joints. I also feel less sick, so I’m motivated to go out and make the most of it. We pick Gigi up at the hospital a half-hour later.

Stell Coffee & Tea Company

1580 Barton Rd
Redlands, CA 92373

Review originally published on Yelp.

This place is what independent coffee shops are all about. They roast locally, and distribute locally. And while I only got a cup of the usual on my brief visit to Redlands, I could taste the quality – strong, aromatic, and full of body. It’s a simple operation they have over there, and they’ve perfected the process.

They roast their beans inside the shop, and it gives the place a hearty coffee smell. It’s an adorably small and welcoming atmosphere, half inside and half outside. Their staff is very friendly. Their edibles are pretty appetizing, especially the chocolate chip cookies and panini sandwiches. They put time and effort into their product, and that’s enough for me to buy a bag before continuing on my cross-country trip.

San Bernardino, CA
2/23/2011

Before I knew it, I was at the train station in San Bernardino, and Barnhart, my host out there, was ten minutes away with his girlfriend, Gigi. “Don’t go exploring, you’re in gang territory,” says Gigi over Barnhart. “Gang territory?” (It kind of felt like a shady place to stick around.) “Yeah, you know, the Bloods and the Crypts do business out there. Don’t wear anything red.” I look down at my red plaid shirt, and I start to panic. “I’m wearing red. Come find me, now.” Gigi takes the phone and says, “Get yourself inside somewhere. We’re on our way,” and before the line cuts off, I hear her say “shit” under her breath.

I waited at the Doughnut King nearby. The nice Asian shop owner gave me some extra doughnuts with my egg, ham, and cheese sandwich order. It was terrible. I picked at it enough to get my fill just as Barnhart and Gigi arrived. I was so glad to be leaving that area; some kids were loitering outside the shop, giving me funny looks. Barnhart was driving a big white truck, holding a 64-ounce cup of diet coke from Circle K. We had a quick hug and shake, and I threw my bags in the backseat. Barnhart had a ruffled look about him, as if hadn’t slept much lately.

Barnhart used to work in real estate back east, but was originally from California. After a two-month solo adventure in Cambodia that almost got him arrested and killed, he returned home to begin more lucrative ventures. He started a delivery business that covers most of the area, and that has been his most recent passion project. For as long as I’ve known him, he has always worn Berkenstock sandals, in every occasion. Even in the midst of winter, he’d wear those sandals.

The drive was comical. Barnhart kept the 64-ounce cup of diet coke in his lap, and while driving with his left hand, he played the drums with a bound bundle of chopsticks in his right. The radio was not on, but still he kept a beat while asking me how things were going. The conversation was nice enough. On occasion he would drift into a separate conversation with Gigi, who sat in the back. The highway drive was dangerous like this, but I didn’t mind. My eyes were too busy looking out at the mountains ahead.

San Bernardino, CA
2/23/2011

I feel a cold coming on. The lack of sleep, water, and nutrition is catching up with me. The last couple weeks have kept my body in a state of fast-moving culture shock, and at last, I’m starting to crack under the pressure. Maybe it’s the air. I was told by a couple people on the train that LA’s pollution can make people sick. It didn’t take long for the microbial bacteria to find another sucker to infect. I felt it give me a sore throat. I tried drinking lots of water while I was on the Metrolink to San Bernardino, but I was distracted by the need to capture the sights I saw. It was not always pleasant to see the transformation.

Mountainous valleys are surrounded by wispy clouds. Lots are full of disassembled cars, parts, steel girders and rusting industrial leftovers. There are graveyards full of junk. Neighborhoods without end are full of track homes and swimming pools. Some of them are crystal clean, and others are murky, green, or bone dry. A lot of good and bad graffiti decorate the walls surrounding these track home neighborhoods. A small playground sandlot is in the middle of a dangerous area. A storage lot the size of several football fields holds a closet full of someone’s life. So monotonous.

A patio table and umbrella rest between two cars in a warehouse parking lot… A Zen rock garden rests next to basketball courts, next to an outdoor hockey rink, next to tennis courts, next to an open field, next to a parking lot, next to a gas station, next to a gentlemen’s club… A man stands around a barrel bonfire, under a tree, surrounded by children’s toys. A junkyard has a special hanger meant solely for car bumpers. A few first-generation trees remain in an empty plot of land. A dead bird cooks on the ceramic tiles of a Spanish shingle roof. I can stare at the sun because the clouds cover it just enough to look like a full moon in a clear night sky.

6-11-2009

Woke up, Harit at my side, asleep, on the floor without a mattress. I am aware because 9AM feels like 12PM, and I can’t go back to sleep. We get up, and I do my laundry downstairs. The female guard is talking socially with a friend, and they both give me looks as I pass by.

I go out to buy breakfast while Harit tries to unlock her smart phone. I go to “Noah’s New York Bagels” and buy bagels. A Peppercorn Potato Bagel for me, a Garlic Bagel for her. No hot chocolate this time. It was funny to walk around Westwood in the morning and see life unfold on a weekday.

I come back, Harit is talking to her brother in Thailand (in Thai), and I think she just mentioned how she “would have called sooner” but “went out with friends to the club last night.” Thai is a really unique language to listen to – completely off the grid – it reminds me of the “divine language” from the movie “5th Element”.

We ate and talked about things to do, and then made motions to go out. I was wearing my Cassavettes tour shirt with white khakis, sandals, and Spyware sunglasses. We took the bus to Santa Monica and spent the rest of the afternoon window-shopping and talking. We hadn’t spoken like that in a while.

We met Ryu after lunch. We were in Banana Republic, and I was getting sized-up by a flamboyant European who was helping me find a nice casual jacket to compliment my outfit. Ryu had not changed, except for his hair color perhaps.

Some people change and some don’t. Harit and I discussed that in length; the issue was electric between us. We had not been together, spoken, like this in a while. How much can change in time? Does it mean anything? Are we any more or less different?

After picking out a light-colored blazer from Zara’s male collection, I wore it out of the store and we continued walking down Santa Monica Boulevard. We ended up at the ocean front, the beach, and the pier. We watched a couple walking down the boardwalk towards the setting sun. We stayed there, watching the waves crash on the beach until the sun disappeared over the mountains.

It was 8 or 9pm, and we began to make evening plans. Ryu got picked up by his young hoodlum friends, and Harit and I met up with Epstein for a potluck hosted by his sister in Venice. I had never met his sister before that. She has a charm very similar to Epstein’s.

We watched the Lakers play the Magic, game 4 of the finals. It was very entertaining; the lot of us (12 or more) making sly comments about the players. “Caveman” was the tall, white monster that towered over the Magic players. Thanks to DVR “magic”, we missed a sizeable portion of the 4th quarter, returning to the game with 4.6 seconds left. Magic had the ball, and tied the game. We went to overtime, and the Lakers dominated.

“Are you sad the Celtics lost this season?” Epstein’s sister asked.

“No,” I replied, laughing. My passion for the sport was nonexistent. I still had fun watching, however.

After the game, the three of us said our goodbyes to the group and went to some bars. The first was called “The Other Room”, a nice, modern take on a beer bar. They had an extensive list of imports, along with a bunch of candle-lit lounge areas to sit at. Venice is ripe with a community that values quality social life. While the bar was common ground to so many unique discussions, the most important were held between the three of us. Epstein told us about his current dating escapades, the ups and downs of finding someone special, and the lessons he learned from each girl he met. It was distressing to hear about his well-thought intentions falling to pieces, and it opened up discussions about how to deal with dating and relationships… very interesting.

The scene at The Other Room was starting to grow old, so we got in Epstein’s car and went to Zanzibar. Before arriving, he took a detour, showing us the Venice canals. Maybe it was the evening dim, or the wine and beers, but the moonlit sky looking amazing cast upon the dark waters. I had thoughts of Italy and gondolas, and romantic frivolity with lovers.

“The water’s about a foot deep, but still…” Epstein said as he continued on, giving us a brief tour of the area. We found a place to park and walked to the bar. I was still wearing my Zara Man jacket.

I had no idea what Zanzibar was. I thought it was a buffet, because a song by Tenacious D referenced it in their lyrics, saying “I’ll order it from Zanzibar!” Did I get that wrong? At any rate, this bar was full of unexpected surprises. I did not expect a lavish food cart directly outside, serving up hot plates of greasy sandwiches to drunk people waiting in line. I did not expect to pay a cover to get in. Foremost, I didn’t expect such a great musical experience inside.

We walked into an African drum performance, playing funky cultural music, accompanied by heavy bongos and harmonic chanting. People were dancing and moving to the beat of the drums. People were making out at the bar, and others were smoking dope. The bartenders were mostly female, and they were wearing very skimpy outfits. The band was drawing so much energy; people were dancing like pagans at a ritual.

The band was followed by an afro-funk DJ with music styles comparable to Daedelus, and kept the party going until closing hours later. Being my kind of music, I lost myself in the crowd, drunk, dancing in the red lights, alone. I found Harit and Epstein nearby in similar satellites, It was one of the more entertaining nights of my life. And that was only the beginning of my brief experience in LA.

Last night was a strange night for me, filled with deviant detours and unusual circumstances that I am unable to get it out of my mind. I personally am afraid that some instances from last night may have scared away some friendships and social acquaintances, along with my self-respect and understanding of people in general.

My plan was to pick up some packaged goods and spend a relaxing evening by the fire (otherwise known as my computer or television). Instead, plans got twisted. My friend, David, came into town for the night. I thought he was coming into town just to fly out to San Francisco. He neglected to mention that his flight was the following day. That being said, the girls (Jey, Lay, and Tray) made a point to contact me and tell me the good news, and that they were getting dinner in Davis Square at The Boston Burger Company with him. I was requested to attend by the highest authority. Instead of pushing for my ‘pick up and drop down’ plans for the evening, I decided to dress comfortably fashionable and make my way out to Davis.

Wearing my comfy black sweater and Martin+Osa jeans and the Zara Man jacket for cover, I made my way by foot in just over twenty minutes. David and the girls have not seen me in months (almost a year in David’s case). At any rate, we fell into conversation like it had only been days since we spoke. David and I actually talked sports briefly (and we both know neither of us really enjoyed sports), even if it was only about how UMass teams were a joke.

David’s ways have not changed, yet he is certainly finding himself during this period of transition in his life. As I write this he is in the sky, off to California, to see a woman he loves. Have a nice trip, David!

After the burgers, we split ways with Lay and Tray, and I walked with David and Jey to her house. She has a nice house, nice roommates, a nice setup. Because my earlier plans fell through, and because I was in Davis, I decided to ring up my old coworker who lives right down the street. Turns out he doesn’t live right down the street from Jey at all, and a laborious trek through the backwoods of Somerville rendered some eclectic conversations between David and I.

We stopped by a package store and picked up a bottle of vodka, taking swigs back and forth, and opened up about existential futility as we tried to hail a cab on an empty overpass. Our costly cab ride took us back to this place, and we hung out for a special meet and greet during the World Series broadcast (an upset for anyone who hates the Yankees). We made a quick exodus back to my place before too much time was lost. My roommate was waiting for David, probably upset that he missed out on the dinner event.

My old coworker is a solid guy who looks up to me with respect. I have been to his place before, and it always had something to do with the recreations we enjoy. Last night, I felt like I used his respect to my advantage, and I feel somewhat guilty about it. That, in addition to dragging David along for such an impromptu visit, made the situation all the more taxing. I had to actively keep David in our conversations about work and life by breaking down inside jokes and events, an experience that David later confessed to me was rather autobiographical. I wonder if my old coworker thought the same way…

David and I bonded a great deal last night for the better. Him and I never speak on the phone anymore; he is always busy with school and work, and I am always busy with work and life. We are lazy and inconsiderate. Ten minutes of time is not hard to put aside for good conversation. I consistently guilt myself for not calling him more often, but now that guilt is gone because of all the fun we had together last night. We talked about so much, random as it may have been from time to time, and still we worked on a fast-paced connection of minds; an understanding felt by long-lasting friends. Our eyes were red, tired, loaded, and eccentric.

And we still had shit going on next day. David had a 9:00am flight to San Francisco, and I had to go to work the next day.