The Sunrise Cafe

In theory, I am obsessed with exploring the California coastline. In practice, I usually just say that I'm obsessed with exploring the California coastline, and leave it at that, as when I make the trek back to San Diego from Los Angeles (or to any other location), I like to get from Point A to Point B in as little time as possible. Call it a short attention span or a lack of good music on my iPod.

Not so, today. My drive back finally involved exploration, and I'm glad it did.

The place was San Clemente, a town I recognize as the place Nixon hung out at in Frost/Nixon and more importantly, the city where the fantastic Brick was shot. The high school that the story takes place in is right off the freeway, and when I'm driving with people past it, I point it out to them. Their response is usually "What's Brick?" I then mutter that it's a good movie, and that it's on Netflix and people should watch it, if they're into noir-stuff or, you know, good movies.

It is worth noting that I had never stopped and looked around that high school though, despite it being a pretty neat landmark for a film geek such as myself. Again, can't stop to smell the roses sometimes.

But this time, I tricked myself. Instead of going to Subway near my apartment, mostly because I went there last night and didn't wanna seem like the guy that always goes to Subway every day for nearly every meal, I drove straight to the way home. That way, by about 1:15, I was really hungry, forcing myself to pull off into the strange new land that was San Clemente.

I still didn't do much exploration; I basically pulled off of an exit and found the first eatery that seemed interesting. I like sunrises, and cafes are pretty neat, so on paper the Sunrise Cafe seemed a perfect place to eat.

That is not to say it is a perfect place. It's a strange corner shop, dimly lit, duct tape covering tears in their vinyl bench seats. Still life oil paintings that are technically proficient but artistically lacking on one wall, and posters of famous dead folk from the mid-twentieth century (Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, and James Dean) on the opposing wall. A place so dim and lacking in an identity it would be awkward and sad if it weren't so Americana and charming. Sounds confusing, but trust me, it's comforting. Also, it's ironic that I say Americana, because I think it is ran by an Asian woman who strikes me as not being from here, originally. But really, what's more Americana than that?

Service was quick and friendly, because besides myself, there was maybe one other person in there, seemingly a regular taking his time with his experience, and talking to the workers. Startled by their proficiency, I rushed into ordering a Reuben sandwich, which came out to me quicker than I think I ordered it. I was assured by the Asian lady that it was the best sandwich in the restaurant though, after she noticed I was running low on Diet Pepsi and my server had not rectified that yet. Not that the server really needed to, as it was still about half-empty at best. They were just really on top of service, I suppose.

Also, a dude mopping asked me how I was doing when he mopped past me. I said good, again surprised by how nice everyone was.

When I left, they questioned my turning up in their quaint cafe. They assumed I was going to San Diego, and then weren't surprised when I said I was coming from LA. They insisted everyone who comes from LA to SD comes through their cafe because they have great breakfast and a good Reuben. I saw a lot more cars on the freeway than I saw people in the cafe, so maybe that was an exaggeration, but who am I to argue?

Then they got even more personal by asking me if I worked in LA. I stammered that I had just finished school, and was still looking for a job.

"What major?"

"Oh, um, film."

"Ohhhhhh like Oscars? Fun."

The server/now cashier chimed in. "We'll put a star next to this and keep it in case you become famous so we can say we served you."

I probably blushed and laughed bashfully at this comment. "Fingers crossed; I hope I can help you out there," knowing that the chances are slim, but it's nice to have small bits of support like that.

More so, it was just nice that they asked me how I was doing, and what I was about. I didn't expect that from a place so strange.

The sandwich was good, not great by any means, but I felt good after the meal that could've very easily been quite depressing. Dining alone in a dim and non-pretentious restaurant in a foreign city can be quite the downer for a brightly pretentious person.

Instead, I felt good, and decided what type of introspective stuff I was going to try to write about when I got to my laptop at home. Instead of enjoying the experience for what it was, an adventure and a good payoff of said adventure, I thought about how it'd influence something I'd write, which I don't know is the right way to enjoy things.

Luckily, I saw an Arizona license plate that read a number, then the letters DYX. That threw me off my pretentious writer mode, and into 12 year old mode.

"HAHA, that license plate sounds like 14 dicks when read aloud!*"

It's good to know I can still enjoy some things without over-thinking them.

*The number was not actually 14; I didn't want to write out someone's license plate for all the internet to see.

Warnings From the Future

If you know me, you know how much I like wormholes, time travel, and the idea that I oftentimes return from the future to fuck with myself in the past.

Which is why I'm worried tonight.

You see, it started out like any other night. I sat in my room thinking that I should get food, but was too lazy to walk a block down the street to Pete's Burgers to get a pastrami sandwich before it closed. I was not lazy enough to ditch the plan altogether, however, and walked at around 9:30, when they were long closed. No worries, though, as I walked a half block away and bought a 12 pack of Miller Light, because we were out of beer at my place, and I like being calorie conscious when relaxing in the evening (ironic that I'm getting a pastrami sandwich then, I know).

That solved the empty spot in our fridge normally devoted to our favorite hops-based beverage, but not the empty spot in my stomach (and for that matter, not the empty spot in my soul that I'm hoping a woman will fill with her love one day, but that's really neither here nor there). Determined to get a slightly greasy sandwich and some fries while I'm at it, I resolved to drive out to Chano's*.

Now, the last time I had a pastrami from Chano's was freshman year. I felt awful afterwards. Like, really really terribly nauseous, and it should be noted that I was dead sober, because if you know what Chano's is, you know it is very rarely visited by sober folk. So I realized going into this trip that I'm rolling the dice, but you know, when I want a pastrami and fries, I can't be denied.

But my confidence was deterred when I returned to my apartment to find a sizeable pile of vomit at the top of my parking space.

I didn't inspect it closely, and it was dark out, and furthermore who really inspects vomit? But what I did see was frightening.

Fries. Lots of em.

Oh shit, I thought. Future Spencer is warning me about this pastrami! I'm going to get sick from it, then immediately learn how to time travel and warn myself with the vomit! Which I guess has its upside because I learned how to time trav--

I'll spare you the rest of my thought rambling, and bring you up to the present. I'm thoroughly convinced this ominous pile of puke is telling me I should not eat this pastrami, sitting wrapped and harmless in front of me.

But will I still eat it?

Yeah, probably. But at least I won't be able to say I didn't warn me. 

*This was going to be what I originally blogged about today, and my title was going to be "Triumph of the Will," which would mean the blog would service as a long setup to me realizing that I named a blog post after an infamous piece of Nazi propaganda filmmaking at the end of said post. Because I think stuff like that's funny.