Bieberlocks and the Three Colleges

IMG_3897Once upon a time there was a high school junior named BieberlocksIt was time to start thinking about colleges, but Beiberlocks’ parents worried he didn’t have eye of the tiger. Everyone was stressing about SAT’s and GPA’s and AP’s—that was everyone except for Bieberlocks. He just sat around tossing his blonde mane, playing Grand Theft Auto, strumming Sweater Weather on his guitar. 

Then along came winter break. Mama and Papa arranged a little SoCal college tour in hopes of lighting a fire under Bieberlocks’ butt. 

First they visited Chapman University. Intimate and charming, located south of L.A. in the quaint town of Orange, Chapman boasts state-of-the-art Dodge College of Film & Media Arts. 

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There were grassy lawn as far as the eye could see, piazzas with gurgling fountains, even an artfully displayed chunk of the Berlin Wall.  Mama smelled the orange blossoms wafting through campus. “Oh, I like this school,” she exclaimed. “I really do.” But when the perky tour guide said Papa would have to pony up $50K a year, he growled, “TOO EXPENSIVE!” 

“Anyway, it’s TOO SMALL,” complained Beiberlocks when he heard the student population was only 5,000.  Mama was heartbroken. She envisioned Beiberlocks becoming a famous screenwriter and thanking her from the podium at the Oscars. But when she passed a bust of Ronald Reagan on the way out, a shiver ran down Mama’s spine, and she said under her breath, “TOO REPUBLICAN.” 

Next, the trio visited University of San Diego. Located on a hill with sweeping views of Mission Bay, the university features Spanish architecture, fabulous succulent arrangements, and a library study nook straight out of Hogwarts. There was even a five-star restaurant with valet parking for co-eds with really rich parents, which unfortunately was not the case with Bieberlocks.

Luckily, Bieberlocks did not dig USD. “TOO SLEEPY,” he said.

“TOO TRAFFIC-Y,” agreed Mama, noticing the shuttles and traffic coursing through the campus thoroughfare.

“TOO EXPENSIVE,” growled Papa.  

And so they headed up the 8, past Mission Valley and Hotel Circle to San Diego State. Mama worried that this school was too big for Bieberlocks. She hadn’t been back since the ’80s, and barely recognized her alma mater. “IT’S SO DIFFERENT!” she gasped. Instead of a Walkman, every student had a cell phone glued to his ear. The crunchy health food store she’d frequented in the Student Union had been replaced by a Starbucks 

Bieberlocks took one look at the hot co-eds soul cycling in the mack daddy fitness center with the 50-foot climbing wall, and the bronzed bros long boarding through campus, and he said, “JUST RIGHT!”

Mama looked at the tropical campus, lush with banana trees and birds of paradise. She thought about surfing in the warm La Jolla waters while visiting Bieberlocks. SDSU even offered a Film/Business major. Maybe she’d go to the Oscars after all. Mama smiled and said, “JUST RIGHT!”

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And when he heard the $20K price tag, Papa, too, said,  “JUST RIGHT!”  Then he told mama she better start job hunting STAT.

Bieberlocks was so ecstatic at the thought of attending such a fine institution he promised to NEVER play Grand Theft Auto again, and spend ALL his time studying for the SAT’s and making straight A’s.

Well, not really. That would truly be a fairytale.

Where will Bieberlocks wind up? Stay tuned. After all, there are more colleges to explore. Can’t you just hear it now…

Colorado State University? “TOO STONEY!”

UC Santa Cruz? “TOO SLUGGY!”

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UC Santa Barbara? “TOO MUCH TALENT!” 

The Dream Inn: Stoner’s Paradise

Post-holiday blahs got you down? A getaway to the Dream Inn in Santa Cruz, might be just the “medicine” to lift your spirits!

Each room has an ocean view, a mini-bar stocked with Marini’s salt water taffy, and a photograph of the Ferris Wheel which you can ride right down the way at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Santa Cruz’s premier hotel is just a fun, beachy hang. It also happens to be the destination of choice for discriminating stoners everywhere. Let me explain…

When we visited over New Year’s, the first thing we did was crack open the sliding glass doors. Immediately the crashing waves and salty sea air filled our room delighting our senses….but wait. What was that other scent wafting in from the balcony?

Was it W-E-E-D?

Why, yes, it was. And we’re not talking a faint hint of ganja. We are talking full-on, back-of-Spicoli’s-van, mushroom cloud of Cannabis smoke.

Who was staying next door—

SnoopLion

Freakin’ Snoop Lion?

“This happens every single time we stay at the Dream Inn,” I remarked.

 “What do you expect?” said Saxon. “It’s Santa Cruz.” He had a point.

 That night we chilled in the room while Saxon commandeered the remote. He made us watch some super lame Lifetime movie called “The Other Woman.” It stared Winnie from the “The Wonder Years.” We had just settled into our double beds when suddenly there was that smell again.

Not sure if it was the contact high or Winnie’s crappy acting, but soon I was snoozing away. Suddenly a loud noise awoke me with a startle. “MOM!” Saxon yelled. “QUIT snoring! You sound like a leaf blower!”

“Sorry,” I said, readjusting my sleep mask and rolling over.

The next morning our neighbor decided to wake ‘n’ bake, and that sweet, earthy scent permeated our room yet again. No worries, mon. We were up and at ’em anyway. One of the best things about staying at the Dream Inn is walking along West Cliff Drive, checking out the surfers at Steamer Lane.

Somehow our friend, Dwain Christensen, makes the SC H20 look warm and inviting in his gorgeous photos. We're here to tell you that water is freakin' cold!
This is Andrew Christensen shredding. Somehow his dad, Dwain’s gorgeous photos make the SC H20 look balmy…We’re here to tell you that water is freezing!


We are beginners (well, except for Jimmy “Kelly Slater” Ratcliff) so we stick to the long, smooth Waikiki-style “party waves” at Cowell’s in front of the Dream Inn.

Before heading to the hotel’s restaurant for post-surf huevos rancheros, we dashed up to the room to change. “MOM, noooooo!” Tanner shielded his eyes from my bra-and-underwear-clad body as if avoiding a total eclipse of the sun.  “THANKS A LOT! Now I’m scarred for life.” We’ve always shared a room with the boys, but like a whiff of sour milk to the nairs, I realized this cozy arrangement had probably reached its expiration date.

We accompanied Tanner and his burned retina down to Aquarius, stopping to check out the new Jack O’Neill Lounge. Adjacent to the Dream Inn’s Aquarius restaurant (site of the first O’Neill surf shop), the cozy space features memorabilia and cool photos…

Jack became Santa Cruz royalty after inventing the wetsuit.
Jack became Santa Cruz royalty after inventing the wetsuit.

Our second night was a deja vu~the waves crashed, Saxon tortured us with more Lifetime schlock, I got yelled at again for snoring, and Snoop Lion sparked yet another spliff. Good times.

The best thing about the Dream Inn is how relaxed you feel when you get home. We chuckled while recounting our stoney stay to our surfer friend, Larry. Not surprisingly, Larry said the same thing happened to his family once. Only his wife called the front desk to complain, and got some money shaved off their bill. Truthfully the smell doesn’t bother us. It’s part of the charm, like the sandy lobby floor and wetsuits draped over the balconies. In fact, I can’t wait to visit again. But next time I’m gonna coin up for two rooms. That way I can snore and walk around in my skivvies to my heart’s content.

Hope your New Year is sweet!
Hanging in the Jack O’Neill Lounge.

Hope your new year is SWEET!

Love,

The Ratty Pack

Ironman and the Yoga Queen

“Hi,” I said to the ranger inside the booth at Big Basin Redwoods State Park. “We’re doing the Skyline-to-the-Sea Trail.”

“You know it’s already past 3 p.m.?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, we know.”

I’d masterminded the ultimate adventure—a “strenuous” hike followed by dinner at Laili, a Mediterranean-Afghan restaurant in Santa Cruz—and no ‘noid ranger was gonna stop me.

Who did this guy think he was dealing with anyway? Jimmy is an Ironman and they don’t call me the chaduranga queen in yoga for nothing.

“We can hike 12 miles in 2 & 1/2 hours easy,” I bragged.

“Thirteen. It’s actually 13 miles,” said Mr. By-the-Book, who insisted we leave a note on our dash for his night relief.

“Dearest Ranger,” I wrote,We pre-parked a car at the finish near Waddell Beach. Please don’t worry if we don’t return for our Prius until after 9 p.m. See you soon!

Then, map in hand, Jimmy and I were off. “What’s his problem?” I scoffed. “There’s plenty of light.”

We trekked through stunning old-growth redwoods and fern-lined canyons, and in no time passed Mile Marker 1. “Only 12 more miles to go!” I exclaimed.

Forty-five minutes later we came upon Berry Creek Falls, the crown jewel of Big Basin. The 60-foot waterfall was so tropical it felt like Hawaii…

Berry Creek Falls

…except darkness was closing in and we still had 10 miles left, so back onto the trail we hustled.

Moments after leaving the Falls the trail suddenly dead ended. Through the dusk, I spied another path — on the opposite side. The only way across was atop a wobbly gutter MacGyvered across the deep, gushing creek.

One slip and down we’d plunge into the icy water.

We crossed unscathed, but a rained out, mucky Slip ‘N’ Slide of a path awaited.

Ironman took the lead, mud skating over the puddles, his neon orange Nikes beacons guiding us through the ever darkening forest.

Thirty minutes later we found ourselves enveloped in blackness.

dark & snowy night

We clicked on our iPhone flashlight apps, a sorry light source for the dark, creepy forest. Just then a mountain biker coming from the Falls zoomed past, his headlight momentarily illuminating the woods.

“Hello!” I cried. “How much longer to Waddell Beach?”

I expected him to say three, maybe four miles MAX.

“About eight miles,” he said.

“Nooooo!” I wailed.

Having depleted our almonds ages ago, all I could think of was the roasted pumpkin borani we planned to devour at Laili later–that was if a hungry mountain lion didn’t devour us first.

“I’m scared, Jimmy. What if we wind up like that couple in the ‘8os who got stranded in a blizzard for five days. They made a TV movie of the week starring Neil Patrick Harris, remember?”

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“If they make a movie about us who would should play you—Rob Lowe?”

“No way,” sniffed Jimmy. “Rob has man boobs. I need someone like Marky Mark, only more yoked.”

Time passed–An hour? Five hours? Time drags when you’re so cold you’re dreading losing your toes to frostbite.  “How many days do you think Tanner and Saxon will keep playing Minecraft before they notice we’re missing?” I asked Jimmy.

“Dunno. At least a week.”

Just when I could not take one more step there it was: Mile Marker 13!

We hugged, then looked around.

Maybe my fuzzy vision was distorted from staring at the tiny pinhole of light for so long, but our car was nowhere to be found. All we saw was an unlit paved road leading into the dark unknown.

Little did we know the additional three miles out to coast where we’d parked ratcheted our hike to 16 miles.

Shivering, hungry, clutching our phones with swollen sausage fingers we soldiered on, until…

…finally, off in the distance…wait, could it be? Yes, high beams of cars whizzing down Highway 1 beckoned us like a lighthouse.

We dragged ourselves the remainder, then collapsed in the car.

Ironman and the Yoga Queen ate some serious humble pie that day.

Then, after thawing out, we hit Laili and feasted on pumpkin borani.

“We made it!” we said, clinking frosty mugs of Belgium pale ale.

“You didn’t have to amputate our toes in the middle of the forest!” I exclaimed.

“And Rob & his moobies didn’t have to star in my life story!” Jimmy added.

Rob & Jimmy

If you’re craving adventure, this is a great one. Just take our advice~park at Big Basin Redwoods State Park, hike the Berry Creek Falls loop (7 miles roundtrip), then head straight for Laili for roasted pumpkin borani. Cheers!

Oh, and Jennifer? If I don't make it out alive next time, are you available?
Oh, and Jennifer? If I don’t make it out alive next time, are you available?

 

Shopping Under the Influence

Proof that you should not go birthday shopping w/ your 14-year-old in downtown Santa Cruz after consuming two mai tais at Hula’s:

Not only will he will walk away with $50 donut print Sanuk bedroom slippers

I swear I didn't know they were called "Glazed and Confused."
I swear I didn’t know they were called “Glazed and Confused.”

…but he will also score a pair of WEED kneesocks.

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“Was that a good choice?” tsked Jimmy when we met up at the car.

“No,” I replied sheepishly. What could I say other than the Appletons Gold Rum impaired my parental judgement?

Could have been worse. I’m pretty sure if I’d pounded two Scorpion Bowls, Saxon might have hoodwinked me into buying these…

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When did kneesocks become fashionable again anyway?