Dreams of Fish
Fragments
The Seven Deadly Social Sins
My Enemy
San Francisco, Strippers, and Satan
New Town
Interviews with the People in My Neighborhood
First Dateh
Reunion
Tasty Recipes
Job Search, Pt. 1
Republic, Pt. 2
Scientology
The Girl Who Works at Tower Records on Thursday Afternoons
Meat Market
Fun Pranks
My Best Friend is My Dentist
Tips For Scoring With the Ladies...
Went to the San Diego Wild Animal Park over the weekend. There's hundreds and hundreds of animals there running around on an enormous open field. Zookeepers drive people around the field in trams, describing the flora and fauna. Each animal, bird, and plant was brought from its own corner of the world to this freak funpark on the outskirts of Escondido, the crystal methamphetamine capitol of California.
People love the place. In one day alone, I saw three, maybe four generations of white trash living it up. I was impressed that people could still find stores that sold Oakley Blades and acid-washed jeans. If that is not the case, it is even more impressive that people could make said items last for so many years. Not only white people visit the park, though. Families from all over the world got together there, looking at the different animals while spending money on admission, souvenirs, and drinks without lids or straws. The snack bar attendant said that the lids and straws were not available for the safety of the animals. When I asked what the animals did with the lids and the straws that was so dangerous, he just sadly shook his head without saying anything. I did not dig any further, assuming the answer was very tragic.
Everyone on the tram was very excited, standing up, pointing and hollering. I stood up because I was excited, too. I wanted to ride every single creature I saw. I pictured myself on top of goats, camels, rhinoceros, and horned elk. Later, I pictured myself riding on the back of a giant gorilla, our hair blowing in the flower-scented wind as we ran off into the sunset. Maybe the other people were thinking the same thought, but there's no way to tell. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a pervert and I am certainly not into bestiality, but I have to admit that there were some damn fine looking animals walking along that plain.
The zookeeper pointed out a herd of animals in a corral. He said that they were called wild asses. Not only did they have a provocative name, they were also highly endangered. They came from a country that has been at war for many years and, during a resulting famine, were hunted nearly to extinction. I was very moved when he talked about their situation and began to wonder what they tasted like. As we turned another corner and saw giraffes and flamingos, I wondered what they tasted like as well. If given a choice, I wondered which animal I would eat. Probably all of them, but I sure would hate to make people think I was some kind of a pig.
I grew up on California’s Central Coast near San Simeon. And, while it has nowhere near as many meth labs as Escondido, you can still take pleasure in seeing zebras running around Hearst Castle, descendants of William Randolph Heart's private zoo. Before, I thought owning a zoo was maybe a sign of a guy a little too much into himself. It reeked of a psychological disorder -- an "I'm Noah and This is My Ark, Motherfucker" complex if you will. Today, I think I actually understand Hearst's motivation in such an undertaking. If I were a rich man like old Citizen Kane was, I too would build my own wild animal park. One much like the San Diego Wild Animal Park, surrounded by drug dealing biker gangs and housing thousands of animals running free on a meticulously maintained plain, one that I would own and walk across, riding and eating the fuck out of everything in my path.
My father was a tough son of a bitch. When I would hear children …