NOTE: I’ve been blogging a lot about my trip to Orange County last week. I am not nearly done with those tales of woe and whoa.
Coming soon is a blog titled: The California Pizza Kitchen Typical Embarrassing Family Dinner Episode, about dining out with my Dad and brother. I chose a table as far back in the restaurant as I could, which still wasn’t far enough that our party of weirdos didn’t weird-out other patrons. More on that later….
After dinner my brother and I ditched Pops and met up at Barnes and Noble in Fashion Island, Newport Beach. This bookstore is one of my brother’s hangouts. He says he frequents the place almost everyday. (Looking for bookish chicks??)
He showed me his two favorite sections: Music and New Age/Religion, which he gave reviews on almost every book on the shelves. I know he’s not buying the books—does he read them in the store and put them back?
We were so hyped from the wacked-out dinner that we hadn’t adjusted the volume of our speaking voices back into normal decibel range. Consequently, we bounced around from section to section talking loudly—like the immature animated high schoolers we used to be. (And sometimes still are?)
I wanted to buy Mary Karr’s new memoir, Lit, so we excitedly hopped over to the nonfiction book table. Keep in mind the whole time in this store we are noisy, giggly, and gibbering like meth addicts about this book, that book, here’s a book, there’s a book, everywhere a book, book!
At the table my brother and I look down to check out the book titles. At the same time we spy the Mackenzie Phillips memoir, High on Arrival. We instantly stop talking. We look up at each other. I see the pained look on his face. I feel the same pain. We can’t speak. We grit our teeth. We make sounds like, “eeee,” “iihhh,” “aaagg.” Then quietly exhaled. Totally bummed us out. Totally sobering book.
We slumped to the cash register. I bought Karr’s book for me and a book on Bob Dylan’s lyrics for my bro.
Point of this story: The song, “If You’re Going to San Francisco,” was written by John Phillips. Egads. No wonder I never liked that song. John Phillips is worse than Roman Polanski.
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