Great White Dispatch
Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 50
16:47
05/17/10
*Author’s note: I wrote this like three weeks ago. Pure laziness is the reason it hasn’t been posted. Deal wit’ it. *
Let me preface this by saying that I LOVE my current habitat. My setup in Minnesota is the ideal place to live, die, run dogs, raise kids, etc. It’s not a home, it’s an environment. If I kicked it tomorrow, you could chuck me to the coyotes and turkey vultures and I wouldn’t have anything to complain about.
But…
When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was live in a big city. Move to NYC, get a sweet studio loft and basically become Kevin Bacon in Quicksilver. Seemed like a sweet way to live.
Over the years, I’ve outgrown that idea. As my antisocial tendencies grow, my need for elbow room and seclusion grows, and the thought of spending every instant amongst the people and pother and pigeon shit doesn’t seem like such a hot idea. But then I spend time in a place like San Diego where you can just amble to any of a million places to eat, drink and be entertained, and for the first time in years I question my decision to set up shop 60 minutes from the nearest book with a price tag.
As I write this, I’m leaning against a tree on the edge of San Diego Bay with the bulk of my week’s stay in the rear-view, and my old desire to try the city on for size is forcefully announcing its long-forgotten presence. After six days of bumping around the coolest place I’ve been in a long while, I can’t help but plot ways to spend more time here. From where I’m leaning, I see seven dogs, three aircraft carriers, two bigass pelicans and about 50 sailboats, and it’s all framed by azure water and a heartbreaking skyline that hides more treasures than you can ever know as an outsider. All those childhood wants are once again tap-tap-tapping my pleasure centers.
Obviously, a week with no responsibilities makes every place taste a little sweeter. I’m well aware that vacation life and real life are two separate beasts. Once you factor in a job and grocery shopping and an annoying upstairs neighbor, the dream fades and you realize you’ve left your wife for a high-priced whore. I know that I live where I belong, and the enticing mistress that is downtime in the sun ain’t THAT alluring.
Still. The breeze is warm and carries the smell of fresh seafood and the sounds of the city –of culture, happening RIGHT NOW – and all I can think about is how I’d like to live here, if only for a little while.
*I took as ASSLOAD (technical term) of pics whilst drifting around San Diego. Seals, dogs, Padres and a POSSIBLY tipsy Airika. They're all here, if you're interested:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/vangoat/
