The SLO-down

The Beginning:

As Whitney and I took the corner of Ave P and 3rd St East at 15 mph only to be sent into what I warmly refer to as an uncontrolled 1800 degree spin across the black ice of eastern Palmdale, only one thought crossed my mind: "This is gonna be fun." and boy was I ever right. Especially after we lived to tell the tale of our 15000 degree spin into a herd of purple sheep crossing the lane only to narrowly avoid colliding with the Hogwarts Express headed towards Platform 9 ¾ (because the bus don't go to Hogwarts. You gots to take a train.). Oddly enough, this was only the beginning of the adventure.

The Adventure:

I was fetched promptly at 7:07 a.m. at L.A. Union Station from Patsaouras Plaza by a tall, lanky fellow driving the Millennium Falcon. The only words exchanged were:

"You're the navigator. The George Washington wig is in the back,"


And we were off, fleeing the smog and traffic and clutter of Orange County, Palmdale and Los Angeles, heading towards the pristine coasts of Ventura, Santa Barbara, and Golveta Gaviota. Sure of the task at hand, enjoying the tunes of Graham's "Rock Your Body (Till the Break of Dawn)" Mix (equal parts rock/facetiousness), and paying no heed to the rapidly decreasing volume of the gas tank, our dynamic duo followed the route inland only to realize that they were a) at the mouth of the Wayne's World tunnel, and b) in the middle of nowhere with only a hint of petrol propelling the Falcon northward along the 101. Stressed, worried, but not upset, our Adventurers hunkered down and prayed for the arrival of Buellton (Everything For The Traveler). But this is boring. So let me recap the events in the Parisian manner: They found Buellton, went to Shell and filled up on gas. Whilst standing in the sunlight Britta realized she had drunk more coffee and water than was advisable and immediately scampered off in search of a toilet. Graham filled the tank. No toilet was found and thus they reloaded to continue of their way. Upon turning the corner the toilet was espied, doors propped open, cleaning supplies nearby. Quicker than you can cue up Benny Hill's chase music, Britta bolted out of the Falcon, leapt over the fencing and slammed the door shut. Buellton indeed had everything for the traveler.


(Edit: As was learned later, apparently not only was Buellton home to partial filming for the film Sideways, but the Andersen's Split Pea Soup is also well renowned for not only its split pea soup, but for stealing the recipe from the restaurant across the street, and rivalry which still lives on today.)


Having then refilled the belly of the Falcon and stretched their legs, Graham and Britta (pirate hat/bandana firmly in place, aviators properly adjusted) continued their journey through the rolling hills of central coastal California, marveling at cows, vineyards, and cows whereupon Britta shared a little known story about herself:


"Years ago…I think it was spring of my freshmen year of high school, my family was driving up to Yosemite during spring break, and I was able to bring along my friend Veronica. Veronica loved cows, in a weird, obsessive sort of way…kind of the same way I love penguins. That's right. I saw Happy Feet…AND March of the Penguins. What of it. Anyways, we're driving up the middle of California, and there's lots of cows there, so I told my friend that cows and horses only lie down when they are dead, or dying. I let this sink in, and then every time we passed a cow field, I counted all of the 'dead' cows for her. By the end of the weekend I had her fully convinced that California had been struck by a Bovine Plague,"


They finally reached San Luis Obispo and The SLO Towers Brothel, home of the elder Towers brother, and several women (thus the naming of 'Brothel'…see what I did there? Yeah.). Once having chatted about their journey and "whatnot" they settled in to watch Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story (which, if you haven't seen, I strongly suggest) and await the bathing of one John Schiesser (???extraordinaire). An hour passed before they were to move again, so let us fast forward to the end of that hour at which time Schiesser was fetched and a luncheon was sought out.


After this quick lunch of beer (and sandwiches), it was off to the Edna Valley where our Adventurers proceeded to get drunker than Bacchus on a high feast day. Four wineries (totaling about 20 "tastes" per person), 12 bottles of Firestone Double Barrel, 6 bottles of Rolling Rock and one giant bowl of chili later, our heroes were fist deep into a box of Wheat Thins pondering the fate of William Wallace and his band of commando Scotsmen, and contemplating the chilly walk back to The SLO Towers Brothel when it suddenly occurred to them that they were all, in every possibly conceivable definition of the phrase, "drunk off their (respective) ass".


To this day the debate still exists as to what time they actually made their escape from Schiesser's Delta Chi Hut and headed towards The SLO Towers Brothel, yet other events and facts have been supported as true by the concurrence of those involved. They are as follows:


1. Schiesser's chili was and still is amazing.

2. The walk was cold, yet not unbearable as all were fueled by the alcohol inside them. Rock.

3. Most of the journey was taken at a steady jog until the Drunkards were no longer able to even pretend that what they had traversed remotely resembled a straight line.

4. James grossly miscalculated his neighborhood and ended up fording streams, solving crimes and soothing wild beasts before re-appearing ever so slightly the worse for wear (but just as inebriated as before) to the stunned and amused faces of his visitors.

5. Graham is very tall.

6. Beds and sleep had never been more welcome (except for that one time when I jumped ship in Hong Kong after fleeing from the Commies in St. Petersburg during the harvest of 1938 with my comrade, Sascha. {"Baron Cohen?" "No."}).

7. James allowed his dinner and beverages an encore performance before heading out to class at 9a.m.

8. Britta and Graham woke at noon.


Slightly/moderately/definitely hung-over, the Adventurers rejoined and went off in search of food from The Shack (Moo.) and returned to Schiesser's Delta Chi Hut to watch some Jack Bauer. It was during this time that they marveled at said Bauer's success in utilizing a nuke to rid America of yet another vicious scourge against humanity: The Antelope Valley. (edit: Fine. So it was 351 Old Mill Road which was nuked to smithereens, and yes, that is technically Newhall, and the immediate blast radius would have affected both Santa Clarita and Valencia, leaving Palmdale -for the time being- unscathed, BUT the nuclear fallout would have affected the Antelope Valley and thus fried every sucker living there, or turned them into fallout Zombies, thus allowing me a very "Hills Have Eyes" type return home… but that's beside the point. Palmdale received some quality terrorist detaining PR promptly before being turned into a glow-in-the-dark pile of radioactive dust.). It was exquisite.


This was followed by "Extras", which is yet another reason to have HBO, and a homework period in which Graham and Britta finished watching Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon battle for the lead in Tristram. This, of course, was followed by sushi, math, and the most entertaining game of Beirut witnessed by yours truly since the departure of the Boston Boys in 2005 (truly, it has been a sad two years). After playing into the wee hours of the morning, beds and homework beckoned our Adventurers, and thus only the journey home remained.


The Return:

The drive back to the smog-filled heart of Los Angeles was, for the most part uneventful (excusing, of course, the Queen and A-Ha sing-a-longs which are only to be expected), except for the In 'n' out adventure. Apparently the In 'n' Out in Ventura is only accessible from Seaward Ave., a minor fact neither of our heroes were cognisant of. Nevertheless, refusing to be outwitted by a simple freeway, they exited at the next possible place, got lost, turned around to eventually find the freeway once more to head northwards in search of Seaward Ave. and some delicious cow (this cow actually being dead, and not merely asleep). In true Graham/Britta fashion, conversations were held strictly in Irish accents and rhyme, as you do.


After this brief pause we drove into the asshole of Camarillo and the upper L.A. Basin ever steadily nearing Union Station and the point at which we say, "Goodbye."