So we drifted off to sleep a little after 5am last night.

Me on the spare bed, Gary on the floor real close. Then, in one of those moments that can ruin a whole trip, I awoke to a clammy, stifling sweat…with unrelenting Southern California sunbeams beating down on me. “Real hot,” was all I could mumble as my big day started off in the worst of ways. Heated up. Already, at fuckin’ 9am.

Fuck Southern California. All of it.

- - - -

Once Nunez arose from his slumber, we geared up and headed over to Wahoo’s for a quick lunch. “Wahoo’s Fish Tacos,” was a lunch joint we’d frequent during my time at Snowboarder magazine. I was suspect of the joint from the get go. The endless stream action sport industry turds waiting in line, the less-than-friendly townies and the crass sticker endorsements covering every fucking square inch of the place. But, like a couple things down here in this wasteland, it grew on me. Evan and I got to know Edgar, and before too long, we were sharing the coveted “Customer of the Month” honor.

Well, yesterday, the combination of the people talking about their summer homes, the slicksters pulling up in their Mercedes, the cell phones buzzing around us…well, let’s just say it was a lousy meal. I got used to this shit when I lived down here. I mean, hell, you are inundated by it from every angle.

Thank god for Portland, Oregon.

Or, thank god for ‘everywhere else.’

Sometimes when I come down here, I get real down on myself for actually living here for those 22 months. I still can’t believe I made it that long in such a fucked place. Gross.

Larry, take us home.