I've had lower back and neck pain for years, primarily due to a magnesium deficiency (which apparently 90-95% of Americans suffer from due to intake of too much calcium. That's right, REDUCE the amount of calcium you take in and take more magnesium in a water solute. You'll thank yourself, trust me). I adjust myself fairly often, but there are some hard to crack places that need a second set of hands.

Ahh...sweet, sweet bliss.

Later that evening, I convinced my mother and grandmother to go out to this great seafood place by the sea. To get there, we meandered through an old canyon that leads straight to the ocean. It's still largely wild with some posh houses here and there. For the most part, it's sage-brush, other types of brush, and more brush still dotted on occasion by rows of sycamores or pine. A haven for hippies, it hasn't changed much since the 60's. Lots of little creek and river beds, too, with heavy dollops of moss and critters to delight anyone's sensory palate for nature.

After whipping across the coastline for about 10 minutes, we arrived. A lackey in ass-tight blue shorts trotted over and looked overjoyed to park our car. I have to admit, I'd prefer it if parking attendants had jester hats and ass-tight, multi-colored, vertically stripped pants, but reality so rarely conforms to my sadistic ideals.

The place was an oral miasma, sheerly confusing in the number of people trying to make sense of the whole damned thing. Eyes faseted on one another, drink, or the obscure contours of the wood interior, mouths flopping open like large-mouth bass trying to eat a critter it could never quite reach; the limitless quest to glut ourselves on life.

I put aside this thought as we sat down. The sun was setting over the water. I looked out over it, tops of heads and all, scanning white caps for that really cool shimmering light effect thingy when light hits water just right (the white-caps of the water, not the middle-aged men). I think they call it the "green flash" effect or something.

The highlight of the evening was when a man in his 50's got up behind us and whipped out a camcorder. I thought the occasion may have been special, so I turned around to quell my innate voyeurism. The server was just coming out with the food and, to my eye, the guy was recording the moment when the person took the plates of food from the serving tray and set it before the other people at the table.

If there had been some small Nigerian child in a pair of denim jeans quietly sitting by and looking confused, maybe I could have explained the scene as some odd attempt to document the introduction of Americana into this poor child's mind.

But no, they were all old people and, by their accents, were American. So here's some guy, looking pleased as punch, smiling wide as the waitress just schlepps food to yet another table. You have to wonder why; I sure as hell did.

Was the man a dissatisfied customer attempting to document the abuses of some barmy waitress?

Did he need filler for the secret documents he had so recently scanned over while taking the British premier's favorite poodle out for walkies?

Or maybe it was some tradition from his homeland or family, stretching as far back as camcorders had existed. The need to record seemingly meaningless moments grips anyone with electronic toys, but this was different; this was depraved and possibly indicative of severe head trauma or psychosis. We fled the restaurant promptly after paying the check.

I again put such thoughts away as the ass-tight blue shorts came to greet us. Like over-eager chipmunks hopped up on coke they scuttled, one smiling in the darkness at his find; our car was there and waiting. This was a grown man, far from the Mexican house boy he once could have been. I named him Sanchez. He smiled. I was drunk.

And so descending back into the valley with glittering lights aplenty washing over the thin atmosphere, I thought to myself that I had had a full evening. My having just come on and posted this confirms that. So remember: if you ever see strange old people recording seemingly banal moments, hail them and ask what the hell is wrong with them. I'd love to know someday.

previous - next