No. 696 – Three Days

Performer: Jane’s Addiction

Songwriters: Perry Farrell, Dave Navarro, Eric Avery, Stephen Perkins

Original Release: Ritual de lo Habitual

Year: 1990

Definitive Version: None

(Edited from original post due to author's memory loss that he'd already posted about half of the following information. We continue now with today's post.)

As I mentioned, when Debbie and I went to California in 1995, I didn’t tell Jin. It made sense at the time. We would be in Northern California, and I didn’t want her to think we might come down South. To me, that would be like going to Chicago and not swinging down to Columbus. Even though it’s the same state, it’s not as though it’s next door.

Well, Jin thought differently. She had been in California for two years by this time, and whenever she got together with the family, it was always on our terms—her coming to us. Being six or eight hours away was close enough, as far as she was concerned.

So she was ticked when she found out we went to California and didn’t tell her, and she held that against me for a long time. She always would send postcards that included a self-portrait of her smiling, but for a while she sent me postcards where the self-portrait was scowling with a “hmmph” thought bubble. She always said she was kidding, but I knew my sister well enough to know there definitely was purpose behind the kidding. (And I can’t say I blame her in the end.)

So when I learned that the National was going to be in Anaheim in 1996, that was my excuse to set things right and finally get to L.A. to see her. It turns out that I still was the first person from the family to visit her there, and that made a huge difference.

On Saturday, I didn't go to the show. That was beach day. Jin and I were going to head to Venice Beach and slowly work our way up the shore to Malibu—all to the strains of Jane's Addiction on the car stereo.

I of course was eager to check out the, ahem, scenery, at Venice, but on this day there was none to be found—not counting The Fireman, of course. For those of you who aren’t hip to The Fireman, Google him. I’m sure there’s video of his act out there somewhere, but basically he’s a beach-sidewalk performer, who’s a perfect fit among the other hucksters selling sunglasses or doing spray-paint art that dot the walk along Venice.

From there, we made our way up to Santa Monica and the famous pier, which was my first experience with such a fully functional pier since Brighton Beach in England. We rode the ferris wheel a couple of times, before finally ending up at Gladstone’s, which Jin informed me somewhat ominously was where the Menendez Brothers ate dinner the night they murdered their parents. (Their highly publicized trial had just concluded.)

Three things stuck out about Gladstone’s that weren’t crime-related. First, it was only OK. It wasn’t the greatest fish place I’d ever been to, which is what I was hoping for. Second, I got a kick out of the aluminum-foil art that the waitstaff made out of leftovers. Jin got a bunny.

Third, however, was the impression I made on the hot Asian woman who sat next to us on the patio. I had gotten into sushi not long before this trip, and I ordered a California roll, partly to show Jin how cool I was but also because it sounded good at the time. When it came, I kept asking for the “shoyu” or soy sauce.

After about the third time I said this, the woman leaned over and said, ‘Excuse me, but how do you know that term?” I had learned it from Laura and explained how my stepmom was half-Japanese. She said she liked hearing that; it wasn’t a term she heard much in the States. Yeah, L.A. is MY lady.