ON THE ROAD 2008: Welcome Back to Caliporn...Er...California! May I Crush You with my Boobs?

PASO ROBLES, Calif. (ZP) -- I didn't think anything of it at first.

A group of very drunk women in the midst of a pub crawl, eight in all, with one hollering something about knowing me from somewhere, staggered past me as I pulled cash from an ATM.

These things happen. Particularly when there's drunk women involved.

I look like a lot of people. Sometimes famous, sometimes high school boyfriends, and once - from the mouth of an ex - I was told that I resembled a favorite coach at a Catholic school at the worst possible time a woman could bring such a thing up.

Rarely does anybody ever tell me that I look like, well, me.

I laughed as the women passed. One woman - the one who claimed to her friends that she knew me - reached out and grabbed my shoulder.

"YOU! I knew it!" the strange creepy gal yelled. "Oh Gosh... did you used to date _____?"

Her English was accented, northern European. An appropriate voice, too, given the fact the woman slurring into my face looked like Thor and Barbie's lovechild - luscious blond hair, full red lips, fair and spotless complexion, and enough surgically enhanced boobage to keep custom bra manufacturers in business for years to come.

Funny thing. Though a few years older, she looked familiar to me, too. I must've stared for a good twenty seconds, without blinking and head cocked to the side, like some Cocker Spaniel watching its master shit for the first time.

And, well, I did once date somebody with the name she'd given me...

* * * *

Wait! I think I know this drunk chick! my neurons screamed. Hmmm... ____'s friend? Name?

Think! DAMMIT!

Okay... breathe... I'm thinking Vegas... 2005... The Venetian's pool ... Don Julio shots... jumping jacks...

Yeah, now that was a fun morning swim.

...Got IT!

* * * *

I shoved my forty bucks in my pocket and smiled back. I had a name, dammit. Even if, well, I couldn't figure out why a SoCal-based actress just happened to be in Paso Fucking Robles, California, two days into the New Year.

"Well, look at this shit! _____ ______, in the motherfucking flesh! How are the fuck are ya, honey?"

The tall blonde not-so-stranger shimmied towards me, skirt riding up her thighs, an army of latex marching across battlefields of porcelain leg. A quick hug and a peck on the cheek, artificial double-Ds crushing my ribcage, holiday greetings exchanged with all the honesty and sincerity of a faked orgasm on a junior high prom night.

Seriously.

Few things outside of organized religion are as plastic and ritualistic as the Los Angeles Hug-Kiss-Kiss.

* * * *

"Wow! I almost didn't recognize you! Cheri, hey, this guy used to date ______. And he lives in Cleveland..."

"Um, well, Cleveland's on the far side of the Ohi-"

"Oh gosh, you just look AMAZING! How ARE YOU? I heard you were, like, dead or something."

"Gee, thanks, chica. Looking pretty hot yourself. So you're still in the adult busin-"

"Oh my God! You remember? Wow! Gosh, like, you probably don't know this but..."

She went on for twenty minutes without pausing for a breath, oblivious to the fact that we only hung out one night, years ago, in Las Vegas. I now know more about her career, sex life, her dogs and cats, and her ex-boyfriend's little premature ejaculation/fidelity problem than I ever wanted to know, really.

In the one place in the world I generally expect to NOT run into THAT ex's friends...

Wow, I thought as she pecked my other cheek, The Central Coast really is looking a lot more like the San Fernando Valley every fucking year.

* * * *

I'd been on my way out for the night; the group of women were done for the night, headed back to their hotel. And they were all pretty much too drunk, by their own admission, to head back out to the few bars Paso Robles has to offer.

Thank God. No offense, ladies.

Last time I hung out with Ms. Double-D, I woke up in bed next to four women, complete with a Nordic-pale leg wrapped around my neck, somebody's ass beneath my head, and the then-girlfriend's passing out with her twat in my slumbering face.

Long night. And equally long story. These things happen. Especially when there's drunk women involved.

But, well, there's a reason I have no desire to ever return to Las Vegas.

- # # # -

ON THE ROAD 2008: Where the Homeless Are To Be Chased Out Like Garden Pests, One Always Finds All the Progressive Chic of Nazi Germany

People living in poverty have the least access to power to shape policies - to shape their future. But they have the right to a voice.

- Nelson Mandela

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- There he sits, this wretch of a rogue, this public menace so foul that the local city council was forced to ban sitting on public benches for periods longer than an hour, to pass anti-loitering laws.

The wily beast grunts to himself, his natural odor fills the air with an animal's stench. He's mumbling to some invisible friend named Danny, laughing about some ethereal joke.

And he's smoking - DEAR GOD! THE CHILDREN! - a half-charred butt, leaning against his army surplus knapsack, and strumming a guitar with four out of six strings unbroken. He's got a coffee cup full of those other smokers' leftovers, half-used menthols and lights.

Mothers pull their children nearer as they pass him. A few local frat boy types walk behind him, mock his muttering. One suit-clad automaton makes a point of walking a half-moon around the unwashed, whiskered creature as he babbles into his Bluetooth earpiece theories about how the local real estate bubble is crashing like a wet paper airplane.

And in San Luis Obispo Fucking California, they're debating another round of smoking bans, too - bans on smoking on sidewalks, on those same One-Hour-Or-Less park benches, even in parks. For the children, of course. Community health and well-being, too.

These things are IMPORTANT, you know - not only does it make the health nuts happy, it veils yet more excuses to chase the idle homeless from their benches, their parks, from their very sight.

Wouldn't want to pick up any bad habits from creatures like that wild beast of a man sitting on that park bench. I mean, his simple pleasure in the open air home the world has dealt him surely harms all...

* * * *

It's not like homeboy has anywhere else to go, really.

In a county of almost 250,000 people, there are 2,500-4,000 homeless residents (San Fransisco County, by comparison, has an estimated 4500-6,000 homeless amongst its 800,000 residents) spread out in communities like Paso Robles and Nipomo, in Morro Bay and Pismo Beach.

And there's only two volunteer-run shelters, providing about 125 beds to sleep in, for all of those folks throughout the county without anywhere else to sleep, one day center for thousands spread out across a county twice the size of Rhode Island.

Yessir, they sure have their priorities straight here in SLO.

* * * *

"You must miss living here," the old man said. "I can't imagine living anywhere else."

I sipped my coffee and tried to go back to reading my graphic novel in peace. But, well, he wouldn't let up. His gray ponytail probably too tight, his bong at home to full of fucking pixie dust. An armful of progressive magazines, the NO MORE WAR! and OBAMA/BIDEN 2008 pin on the jam band tee, the token sandals and socks and patchouli stench of your everyday, Overgrown California Baby Boomer Hippie variety.

Welcome to San Luis Obispo. Mother Jones meets Dot Com venture capitalist, Emma Goldman meets the corporate raider Democrat, New Deal meets the Soccer Moms and $1,000-a-month slumlords.

"It's sad, you know. We have all these vagrants and not one of them ever seems to get the idea to move to a more... accommodating place... like to San Diego."

"I dunno. Maybe they like it here, too. Or maybe they can't afford to move, maybe they're stuck here."

Silence. Thank you all that is fucking hol-

"Not to be rude, I know you're trying to read, but they could hitchhike."

"Yeah, well... maybe they're all too fucking tired because they can't catch a few FUCKING winks in this town!"

Silence. Again.

"Sir, you don't have to use such language. It's bad for your health, man. And there's children-"

I look out the bookstore's window. The homeless dude's still sitting there, mumbling to himself. Completely oblivious.

"You think words are worse than what ya'll let happen to guys like that? Yeah, fucking regular utopia here, sure. Regular Orwell-Meets-Jerry-Garcia."

The freest of animals, an honorable, innocent beast, while I sit trapped behind glass with his self-absorbed, blind shepherds.

- # # # -

WINE COUNTRY CONFIDENTIAL: Bizarre Cocktails and Nostalgia, Not So Classic Beauty, and the Ohio Library Veterans Association

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- The bartender looked at me as if I were crazy, downright fucking nuts, bonkers, completely off my rocker.

"Yeah, it's called a Napa Valley Handjob. I learned to drink 'em from older Poly alums back in the day."

It's one of the most insane undergraduate cocktails of all time, a perfect mixture of the often unrealistic perception of life in California Wine Country, of 1980s Falcon Crest pipe dreams, and the typical American college kid's very real need to get completely shitfaced.

Basically, the cocktail is merely a high octane version of a wine spritzer, the kind of pussy cocktail served at teetotaler weddings, Rich White People (RWP) parties in places like the Hamptons and Connecticut, and artsy-fartsy gallery openings along the East Coast.

Instead of the stereotypical white-and-club mixture, however, one adds a shot of vodka and a dash of black pepper to cheap Cabernet, gently mixes with ice, pours the whole thing into a highball glass.

In college, the wine was, well, usually a jug of Carlo Rossi, and vodka usually referred to any cheap, clear liquor, usually with that cheap-booze rubbing alcohol flavor.

Even better with Everclear.

"The drink's a Myra without the vermouth, dude. Calling it a Napa Valley Handjob used to make the Aggie girls laugh, think you were high class and crude simultaneously.

"Much more appropriate name. And sometimes, guys did actually get handjobs from girls from Napa, especially the sorority chicks..."

The doubting barkeep laughed, saying he had no idea how to ring up a Napa Valley Handjob. But, well, a Poly student himself, he made a point of writing down the drink recipe.

Older alumni know best, after all.

An older couple at the bar, yuppie tourist types, probably from wherever Land's End actually ends, some plane of hell reserved for old men in penny loafers and tennis shorts, got up and left.

They didn't even finish their bottle of Zinfandel.

Oh well. Can't blame 'em. They chose a shitty vintage. Horrible bouquet. One of those fly-by-night retiree wineries. Smelled like rancid goat semen.

Like Carlo Rossi, except for the $40, tourist-ready price tag and $20 corking fee.

Would've been perfect Napa Valley Handjob wine.

* * * *

ATASCADERO, Calif. (ZP) -- Busted lip and all, the young girl picked herself up and brushed the dust off her baggy shorts.

Even from 20 feet away, along El Camino Real, I could make out the road rash from her failed feeble grind, the ground-in concrete from the sidewalk buried in her shins. She'd landed almost face first; if her knees and palms hadn't absorbed the brunt of the impact, her bloody lip probably would've been a busted nose or worse.

The skater shoved a finger into her mouth, checking for missing teeth or loosened fillings. Satisfied, she kicked her board back up to her side and sat down on a bench, right in the heart of Sunken Gardens park.

She peered from side to side, watching cars as they passed, looking out for the dreaded Po-Po, the ones who, sadly, are now responsible for citing those who refuse to practice the California State Sport within the sanitized confines of the local skate park.

The young fugitive from city-ordinance justice gingerly picked stone from her knees, spitting on her hands to wipe away the blood.

Another kid, a raven-haired Lancelot on his own banned wooden horse, pulled up beside her. He whipped off his shirt, stripped down to his own over-sized Dickies and his Vans and his broad, studded leather belt and his wallet chain. He tossed it at the young skater's lean, bloody shins, striking his best teenage, cock-sure skatepunk pose as the wifebeater fell into the girl's waiting hands.

And then he sat down beside her, put his arm around her, wiped the blood away from her busted lip. He kissed her gently on the cheek, and she put her head on his shoulder, pink liquid dripping onto his chest, their sweat and blood and teenage love perfect.

And to think - a woman recently told me, back in Oxford Fucking Ohio, that I wouldn't know true beauty if it stared me in the face.

* * * *

PASO ROBLES, Calif. (ZP) -- War stories.

That's the best way to describe conversations with "El Guapo," my former Oxford Fucking Ohio colleague.

We bellied up to the bar at the Crooked Kilt, right off the town square, less than a hundred yards away from one of the old Carnegie Library, the one the 2003 San Simeon earthquake didn't have the heart to bring down with many of the other historic downtown structures.

Eight drinks into our Association of Badass Fucking Librarians Conference, I realized something.

One does not simply leave Oxford Fucking Ohio.

One escapes.

Looking around the crowded bar, I also noticed something else, something that I've been missing for going on three full years.

Diversity. Real, organic diversity.

And we're not talking the complete horseshit, let's - substitute - Affirmative - Action - with - politically - correct - statistical - quota- building, either.

Blonde Barbie-doll looking women, hanging off the arms of tattooed Latino bikers. Goth girl waitresses getting hit on by middle-aged golfers. Bodybuilder bouncers discussing ska concerts with skinny dudes, popped-collars mingling with plaid pants and straw fedoras. Old alkies at the bar, too, ogling the Asian girl in the micro-mini, the probably fifth - generation Japanese - American woman whispering to friends.

And two gay guys on a date, out in the open, holding hands, next to the old rancher-looking guy. I know gay men and women in Ohio who can't get a date, who can't go anywhere, even when attached, in the NeoCon Disneyland that is the Greater Cincinnati Area, without worrying about some Bible-thumping zealot or some homophobic idiot ruining their evening.

"El Guapo" just bought a house, moved his family here, into the heart of Wine Country.

And I'm so jealous I could scream, downright envious.

"You know, California is really full of a lot of cool people," El Guapo said, as he returned from the pisser. "A lot of arrogant assholes, but, yeah, cool people."

After I dropped El Guapo off back at his house, I returned to downtown Paso Robles, a town I once called home, a hick town I once despised, back when all the old buildings were still standing and before the wrecked Carnegie was closed to visitors.

I wanted to cry.

Instead, I pissed through the safety fence, right into the manicured landscape surrounding the busted ol' Carnegie Library.

A young woman who I'd seen at the Crooked Kilt earlier in the evening, a woman El Guapo thought I was talking up every time he got up to hit the head, walked past, said hi, and asked if I had an extra cigarette - while I'm taking a piss.

"I heard you talking at the bar. You guys were cracking me up."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I was born in Cincinnati. I thought it was so funny, because I probably know people that go to [Local U.]."

We spent two hours talking in that downtown park.

And her advice?

"Run."

- # # # -