Dispatches from the Dark

Any holiday film or (better yet) commercial tells you that the "Holiday Spirit" triumphs over all. And for all I know, that may be true. But what is also true is my living the same things of which California Gold is all about. And it does not exist in Minneapolis.

Not that it ever has. And not that this is news, either. But it had been many years since my last sojourn to the north during the darkest of hours. Whatever had changed really hadn't. The fact that Best Buy built 5 buildings where houses and a car dealer used to sit, the fact that you have more chain restaurants than before, the fact that it's 35 degrees instead of 20...these don't hide the truth. This is where your ambition slowly goes to die. Here, it does not die a quick death. In fact, you might not even notice it leaving. The only way you WOULD notice it is if you contact the world outside this cavernous mindset.

It's visiting relatives of family friends. They're all from Greece. They know no English at all. But they know how to cook. They know how to drink. Immediately you are good friends. You dance, drinking Greek Government-made "Tequila" while talking to them. And they smile, not understanding a god damn word. But you're all having a fantastic time.

"Come on, Trip, time to go."

Huh? We're living on the Greek Soul Train of Good Eating right now.

"No, we're meeting another group at a generic Brewpub."

Soul, wilting.

It's meeting a middle-aged ad exec at yet another Family Carnival Circus. They want to know of the "TV Biz" and they respond as if you are the end all to it. Well, not quite, but they are interested people and so you go on. You give details few know, while describing the joys of this life.

"Isn't it great having him back? I don't know why he left!"

Soul, thirsty.

It's sending countless text messages to your lady back in LA. Sure, you miss each other for multiple reasons, but you have another angle - you're not warm. You're trapped. You're having to relive all that you left again and again. And as much as you change, as much as the surface of this dark cavern may change, the inhabitants won't. And they won't admit you have, either. And you can tell of what you do, places you go, girls you grope, but it doesn't matter.

My soul needs sun. And more than that, it needs warm breezes.

Doing a week's worth of work in a day and a half (all while the Sun Bowl is on) is no way to live. But there is swank, there is said girl, there is plenty of beer. And yet, already back in the groove that wide lapels endorse, you can hear their cry:

"Come back! Come back"

And finally, after all these "vacations" back, it made sense. The outsider IS the sun there. It is the soul. It is the warm breeze (even the gas from the insane amount of salt that is in every foodstuff made). Without the outsider there, it is black ice, windshield fluid, added weight. Overtold stories, expensive liquor at city-owned stores, cream soups. Us? We have deviated from this cave and are now at a mental beach miles away. Everyone could enjoy this gold if they got out of the cave. But they don't.

That's why it's so good here.