So with Disneyland completed, Christmas Break 1988 was off to an awesome recovery, canceling out the unpleasant beginning known as The Drive.
Christmas preparations resumed in San Diego by Mom taking us to the closest mall in Poway (the ‘burb they lived in). I only remember Brian’s gift which was rather unimaginative; a pair of Smithereens EPs. He was cool with it. I remember he gave me the dual CD compilation for the Damned’s tenth anniversary; hopefully I got him something else to compensate on the unevenness of our exchange.
The big surprise was our cousin Ron spending the holiday with us. We hadn’t seen him for years, especially after his father (Uncle Loran) moved to Alaska in the late Seventies; it always put our “miserable” time in North Dakota into perspective. Ron was in the area because he had completed basic training at the nearby naval base. Mom took care of providing Ron a gift to keep him from feeling left out. Dad explained that basers weren’t allowed to have much space-wise. Naively she bought him some soap-on-a-rope. It brought out a lot of chuckles from every male in the house (including Ron). By then it was too late when my mother realized the “tactless” nature of her choice.
Meanwhile, an Arctic wave of cold air blanketed the entire continental US by Christmas Eve. It was severe and even San Diego wasn’t spared the freezing temperatures. Of all the Christmases to be in Southern California, I had the misfortune to relive Houston in 1983. The weather recovered during my last several days there, in time for me to feel the shock of trying to readjust to Milwaukee in the heart of Winter.
We took Ron back to the base a day or two later. He got to visit us again pretty quickly. Some idiot made an error with his orders for being transferred to Nashville and until this was ironed out, Ron was allowed to stay in the area. I think Dad wanted him to get a better view of the city while he could; military life is filled with tedium. I recall going to some pricey mall on the north side where he spent a ridiculous sum of money on sunglasses. The “elitist” college student in me felt he acted like all those other desperate, horny sailors I’d see in downtown Milwaukee, especially when any young woman crossed his sonar. Brian confided to me later about how Ron was asking for assistance in getting the attention of some skanks at a bowling alley. Overall, I did wish Ron the best with his naval career while considering myself lucky; Mom once said, joining the military is equal to attending college for most of Dad’s family. Many cousins have since proven this wrong.
I did succeed in meeting Trip Reeb of 91-X and the lady (let’s go with Michelle) from Enigma Records in LA.
The drive to 91-X’s San Diego facilities and back was marred by Mom having a burr in her saddle for some reason. I think it was instigated by the Jerry Harrison song “Rev it up” on the radio. She failed to spoil talking to Trip though. He provided a sobering learning experience about the “industry” and I was grateful for him taking the time out his busy schedule. This man went on to be the general manager of KROQ, the gold standard of Alternative stations in Los Angeles (and the world) around 1989. As a parting gift, he gave me a pair of 91-X shirts. One was for me and the other for Steven Alan Segal at WQFM. I should’ve brought a bag to hide Segal’s. When Brian got wind of the “extra” shirt, the drive home was a barrage of incessant bitching from him and Mom over me not giving it up. I finally appeased Brian with a Smithereens shirt courtesy of “Michelle” from the Enigma Records trip. The quest to LA to meet her was a larger karmic expense yet it became an eye-opening, direction-changing one. I had been leaning toward toughing it out in Milwaukee after talking to Trip. Then seeing LA solidified my decision to take my chances at being a “larger fish in a smaller lake,” which “Michelle” stated in our conversation about my impression of California. It was great to finally put a face to the voice on the phone regardless.
This Break also included my first and last trip to Mexico which is why I’ve never bothered visiting again despite living in Texas for 13 years. (The border is 250 miles from Austin.) Before then, I was intrigued by the stories of Tijuana from movies and other sources. I wasn’t looking for anything controversial, I just hadn’t been to a country which wasn’t America Lite, aka Canada. I also had to find a bottle of tequila with a worm in it for Downstairs Dan at WQFM. This I succeeded at and drafted Mom into “smuggling” since you still have to be 21 to bring it back. I use quotes on the word smuggling for it was her choice of word. Americans were legally allowed to bring back one liter each without hassle from the Border Patrol. The harder part now is bringing it back in your luggage thanks to the Department of Fatherland Security’s TSA.
I know it’s unfair to judge Mexico over Tijuana, but it was the filthiest place I had ever seen. It made some of the roughest parts of Milwaukee look like Club Med. The poverty was depressing too. I must have been delusional when I thought going shopping there would be enjoyable. Unless you’re hunting for bargains on tequila, blankets, turquoise jewelry and other crap trinkets, you’d have better luck at the overrated outlet malls in the States. I did score a pancho for myself since I really liked the color. Buying it was a different matter. In TJ, the street merchants don’t put price tags on their wares. You have to haggle and they will only take American money. This soured my experience further; I felt like I was still taking advantage of people in an impoverished country. My family made a second expedition days later. I declined and stay behind to watch cable.
(I’m running out of time and I barely will make my deadline to post this so I’ll start to wrap this up. Seems that 1988 was an amazingly eventful four weeks though. Maybe I can recycle this with new stories in five years.)
The four weeks wound down and I couldn’t wait to get back to Milwaukee-Marquette. A couple thousand miles of distance between us was in order for both parties. I remember the second half of the Break being ruined by arguing, bickering and fighting which is why I never returned to San Diego to visit my parents. Much of the friction was likely my fault; I had trouble dropping the subject then; but the contentious nature of that time served as the impetus to become a more independent, self-sustaining adult; I would’ve pulled it off if I didn’t take the job with GDW.
Out of frugalness, Dad bought me a round-trip ticket to send me back to school. His plan was to have me return for Spring Break because one-way flights were expensive. To me, the prospect of flying quickly to San Diego only to spend a significant portion of another vacation trapped in a car with my mother and/or brother sounded like a violation of the Geneva Convention. The ugly memories of this Christmas Break were still pretty fresh when the time to use the other half came around and I let it go to waste. Dad was pissed. I still stand by my decision to this day. Brian got stuck using half of his week off from college driving because Mom wanted to stop in Las Vegas along the way…to see some crummy outlet malls.
Unpleasantness aside, Christmas 1988’s legacy is it being the last truly “eventful” Break of my life. Future ones were usually briefer and duller because I had an apartment, a part-time job to stay busy and a girlfriend. I also learned that the company one was surrounded with can always trump the location when planning a great vacation.