R.I.P. Mr. Pribble

Jack Kerouac would have been proud. Our reaction to the looming Super Bowl, given the history of our Loud Neighbors and their obsession with football in all its variety, was to get the hell out of town.

We hit the road at a leisurely hour and pace, with no particular destination in mind except that I wanted to have trout & eggs at the legendary Farm House restaurant where Rollie, the ten foot tall fiberglass rooster, lives.

Of course I wasn’t paying attention and I took the wrong freeway but getting lost (although we weren’t) is all in the spirit of the archetypical road trip.

So there we were, on the Frank M. Pribble Memorial Highway, which we hadn’t been on since it was just I-60.

It’s a lesson, it’s a metaphor! You can be where you weren’t planning on being, but still get where you’re going --- and you can enjoy it.

When we finally approached the Farm House, it was obscured by a brand new Denny’s. How could that be? Who would want bland food coated in tasteless oil when they could have the hearty grease and genu-wine Americana of the Farm House next door?

Answer: Not us, but anybody else who was hungry. The Farm House is closed for business, and Rollie (with his fresh coat of patriotic feathers) guards an empty building.

https://vine.co/v/MzQWtA9IiA6 Please turn on the sound.

Sigh.

So we went a ways further to Gramma’s House (sic) and had trout & eggs there, amid the exact same kind of plastic Americana that used to grace the Farm House walls. So exactly the same that I’m tempted to Google it and see if someone sells Americana by the yard.

The waitresses at Gramma’s (still sic) all wore football jerseys. And there were TV sets, turned to a sports channel. I was afraid that the Super Bowl had followed us until I saw that they were all showing women’s basketball.

I now love Gramma’s, despite the mediocrity of the food.

Next, instead of a pointless venture into Outlet Mall Hell, we decided to take a trip (way) back in time to my adolescence. We dropped south and started to climb the San Jacinto mountains, banking vertiginous drops through the blackened skeletal detritus of fire and drought, up and up and up six thousand feet past what used to be hippie communes but are now Christian retreats, until we got to Idyllwild.

I went through the arts program there (dance and drama) as a tween and teen. I had formative experiences and forgettable performances. I haven’t been back since the 70s.

It was fun. It wasn’t quite like I remembered it, but never mind that. Time passes, etc.

I found only one person who looked older than me, and asked if the Red Kettle restaurant used to be called the Koffee Kup. (I love-love-loved the Koffee Kup.) Mrs. Santa Claus looked at me strangely and said, “I don’t know. I’ve only been here since 2004.”

On the way down the mountain, we stopped by the side of the road so that I could photograph the sunset for @insightofaseed who takes lovely landscape photos on Twitter.

Robert disappeared off the path for a bit, then came back smiling, waved both arms in the air, and yelled “I’m a boy!”

Luckily I had gone back in town, so the rest of the drive was peaceful and comfortable.

It was a lovely day and I hope your team won.