An Open Letter to San Diego

Dear San Diego,

Your weather is sublime and everyone knows it.  Every morning I hear the weather report: "Cloudy in the morning, giving way to sunshine by midday, high in the mid seventies."  Sometimes it's a bit cooler, maybe a little warmer, and sometimes it stays cloudy; but no one actively checks the weather because it's the same every day: mostly nice, and awesome at times.

San Diego, your citizens take great pride in their weather.  No one swims when the water is cold, no one goes to the beach if it's not a perfect beach day.  And why would they?  After all, the water will probably be warmer tomorrow, and tomorrow will probably be a perfect beach day.  There is no need for one to make themselves uncomfortable on account of less than perfect weather, because perfect weather is always just around the corner.  No wonder you are one of the most desirable places to live.

But San Diego, your citizens truly flip out when the weather changes--even if just for a day. 

Yesterday you were hot.  To be fair, you were not just hot relative to your norm.  You were truly fry an egg on the sidewalk, melt in your car, 100 degrees, desert hot.  This was cause for alarm among your citizens.    People treated your temperature like the End of Days--they didn't even want to leave the office for lunch if it meant leaving the safe harbor of air conditioning.  This was the day to end all days:

"You remember that day back in 2010 when it was hot?"

"Boy do I!  I was sweating when I was outside, even though I was wearing shorts!"

"I know, I went for a swim, even though the water was only 65 degrees!"

I'm not surprised San Diego.  You treat your citizens to the most temperate weather in all the land and they expect nothing less.  They are not impressed with a partly sunny 80 degree day--in fact that may be too hot.  They care not for a mostly sunny 68 degree day--nothing special.  But you crank the heat one one day out of three-hundred-and-sixty-five and your citizens are appalled; and when it rains... "OH THE HUMANITY!"

But I understand.  If you never consider the weather a cause for discomfort, or even mild annoyance, then a 100 degree day will blow your mind farther than some Maui Wowi.  But what I don't understand is that today--when the temperature returned to a balmy 78 degrees--your citizens weren't  happy or thankful, they were placated. 

No hard feelings San Diegans, but given that your winter sport is surfing, and the "no shirt, no shoes, no service" signs don't apply to you, complaints about just one uncomfortably hot day might fall on deaf ears.  I enjoy your weather as much as the next, but I spent the last seven years of my life in places where the first nice sunny day in spring is cause for celebration and impromptu "sick days."  Moreover, I grew up in the desert where 100-degree days are what's going on during the summer.  So get over it, it's not that bad.

My advice would would be to take the next 100-degree day to give thanks for the fact that it's just one day, and remember tomorrow the weather will be mostly nice, and awesome at times.

Sincerely,

B.H. Homer

A Stranger on the Beach

I was laying on the beach on a Tuesday afternoon during a San Diego summer.  Since Wednesday I had finished the bar exam; moved out of an apartment; and spent a weekend in San Francisco.  Now I was laying on a beach in Cardiff-by-the-Sea and my earthly belongings (of which there are few) were scattered about Eugene and Portland Oregon.  I was a man without a home and a stranger on the beach.

I lay shirtless with my feet in the sand and a fruity sheen of Coppertone glistening on my chest.  My Oregon whiteness was surely glaring among the bleach white hair, leather brown skin, and blue water.  Out in the ocean I watched a mess of blue surf boards and kids of all ages and sizes thrashing about in the water.  Some were catching waves, others were bobbing, others were flying happily into the water off their boards.

Mixed in among the fleet of identical blue surfboards were several adult size wet suits.  I soon realized these kids were members of the Eli Howard Surf School and the adult sized wet suits were their instructors.  The kids laughed in the sun.  Shouts from all over demonstrated unbridled excitement at the success of standing atop the water and coasting down the face of a gently curling wave.  They exuded pure summer.

I smiled as I recalled endless younger days of sports camps and sunscreen.  Growing up in the desert, the notion of spending my days surfing had never occurred to me.  However, here I was, 25 years old, in the middle of a weekday watching kids enjoying the greatest child hood pastime: summer.  Despite the purity of youthful joy all around me, I lay pondering what type of liability release forms the parents of these kids had signed.  I was a stranger on the beach.

I waded out into the water and looked back at the western coast of Southern California.  The water washed over my head.  The ocean has a way of making a man feel very small--rightfully so.  All I can do is keep my head above water and keep swimming; but there are no instructors, I can swim wherever I please.

Homers on the West Side

It was unclear if it was an omen or just poor management, but the Circle K where the trip began did not have a restroom. One mile from I-10 and no bathroom? Luckily the adjacent alley was empty (actually had a convenient light) and they still carried beverages. We made the necessary purchases and hit the road. 3:38 pm, MST.

The drive from Tucson to San Diego is pretty much a straight shot from the desert to the coast: up the 10, left at the 8, gas at Yuma, tight rope walk the border, slow through several racial profiling stations (er, border patrol), and role into casual town USA (San Diego). On a good day, the drive is 6.5 hours; but when you’re on a mission to catch a buddy’s CD release show you make it in less than six – stops included.

Yuma: home to Lou Dobbs and not much else was rest stop one-and-only. The objective: Chevron and Jack-in-the-Crack in under twenty minutes. Outcome: twenty-eight minutes because Brad had to get curly fries which were unfortunately not yet ready to be served. Also worth noting: the telling size of Yuman urinals (see right).

At 9:33 pm, MST (8:33 pm, PST) we arrived in Cardiff-by-the-Sea. We met up with the Helen Earth Band fan brigade and immediately began the requisite “to fit in” boozing. There was a consensus among the brigade that we must go downtown for some pre-function-consumption. Upon arriving on the 14 floor of a swank Gaslamp district apartment, the Homer consensus was, “Wow.” But then our host informed us that we could “only party in my room because my parents were sick and didn’t go out” and it was a high school run back. No bother. Following a disgusting rum shot, bounce down the moving trampoline at Ralph’s, and a jaunt across San Diego County to El Cajon we were at the Beauty Bar celebrating the release of Helen Earth Band’s “Our Own Ghost City.”

The show was great and had all the right ingredients: PBR tall boys, a sketchy bar chocked full of hipsters, hair salon chairs with perm helmets, a few good friends, a drunk girl openly searching for anti-horny pills, and the band killed; they played their entire 13 song set.

The after party was in Encinitas, a mere 30 miles back home. Adam slept on the car ride and nearly froze to death at the party. He was content to eat a burrito – carne asada – alone in the corner.

Adam awoke too early Saturday morning and was pleasantly greeted by a hangover. He showered and decided coffee would be good and Pipes’ coffee would be perfect (if you're so inclined, Pipes also serves delicious gigantic breakfast). Drawn to the three block-long aroma of VG Donuts, he added a glazed and chocolate glazed to the haul and the day began. Brunch at St. Tropez was next. The company was exquisite, the food necessary, and if you’re ever in the mood for delightful French toast made from croissants, this is your joint.

The rest of the day – despite Adam’s cry to “conquer something” (presumably his hangover) – was a celebration of San Diego sensibility. The weather was unseasonably warm (possible in SD?) and we spent the day at a beach house with a view of the sky that is only obstructed by the Pacific Ocean. We dined on over sized (understatement) subs at the Sub Palace; and while it is no palace, they do serve subs fit for royalty. We bid adieu to the daylight hours while sitting on the beach, drinking a heavenly red, and watching surfers share the last sets of the day with dolphins and the setting sun.

Like every good beach/sunset date, we followed that up with two outrageously priced pitchers at Besta-Wan and lots of sports talk. A phone call and rushed check later, we were downtown, on our way to the Nixon Watches holiday party. WHAT?? Yes. We found ourselves in a converted warehouse (The Old Wonder Bread Factory), full of overpriced modern art, unique facial hair, refinished concrete, velvet ropes, equal parts blazers/tennis shoes/awesomeness.

Underdressed and out of place we were entertained by a Roger Federer look-alike, an ex-cousin, and an open bar before we found our calling: the dance floor. As the newly coronated Kings of the dancing empire we closed down the place with the whitest dance moves the world has always known; dice were rolled, several running men spotted, a sprinkler sighting, and a general disregard for any rhythm the music provided. Additionally, photos were taken in the company provided photo booth that will undoubtedly stunt our political careers should the photos ever re-emerge (the were sadly lost).

A hungover wake up, coffee, brief retracing of footsteps, and brunch at the unreal Beach Grass Café rounded out the trip. Please note: the Beach Grass Café should be a breakfast staple for anyone conscious at the brunch hour in San Diego.

The trip was strictly by the seats of our pants and a Western winter tribute; visit while it's 72 degrees on the west side and 8 over there on the east side. Go to brunch with your favorites. Listen to Helen Earth Band. Be a wee bit irresponsible. Catch a sunset.

READER AND DRIVER WARNING: there is a coyolina (half coyote, half javelina) parousing somewhere along I-8. He is not afraid of Nissan Frontiers traveling 90 MPH and is terrifying. Beware.