Murphy: My California (va)cation
Brian Murphy traveled with a group of friends to Los Angeles and it turned out to be memorable trip
By Brian Murphy
LONG BEACH/INGLEWOOD, Calif. -- Here’s the thing about attending an L.A. Chargers home game at the NFL’s newest money pit: There really are no L.A. Chargers fans, as I discovered during my two-day pilgrimage with new friends to this sun-soaked fantasyland.
There were disenfranchised San Diego Chargers fans. Lost refugees in throwback Fouts, Seau and Rivers jerseys wandering the boulevard of broken childhood dreams. Casual transplants with other vested interests on the massive SoFi Stadium videoboard and the carnival atmosphere that was equally intoxicating and grievous.
And many, many more Vikings escapees in various shades of purple, guzzling 24 ounces of regret two at a time and Skol-chanting through a pedestrian 27-20 victory that kept Minnesota’s playoff hopes in critical but stable condition.
Surrounded by other hustlers, drunks, stoners and gambling degenerates who checked their real-world identities at the gate and buried their snouts deep in troughs of vice.
My kind of crowd.
Television does not do justice to the ugly opulence and sheer beauty of this $10 billion suburban boondoggle, the perfect commercial bazaar for Super Bowl LVI in February and all the return engagements. It is a gallery-ready portrait of American masturbation that needs no legal definition. You’ll know it when you see it.
There is something truly liberating about stealing one more summer party from Old Man Winter. Like finding a crumpled 20 in the bottom of the dryer. Or a forgotten joint stashed under a flower pot in the garage.
Randomly celebrating with confidently cool and welcoming folks that makes crawling over life’s broken glass tolerable. And there is no better place to turn on, tune in and drop out from 2021 madness than this sprawling metropolis of palm trees, concrete, reinvention and legal weed. Damn good weed.
A rare November heat wave of mid-80s temps bathed Southern California in sapphire skies for our 48-hour authorized leave. Poetic justice for escaping the Twin Cities’ first slush-and-slop gut punch. There are sunsets, and then there are Pacific sunsets on the lush green grass of a stumbled-upon blues festival in the shadows of the Queen Mary.
A crew for the ages
Getting ahead of myself, here. For the record, I may take out some guardrail capturing this whirlwind tour. To convey the breezy and judgement-free ethos that defined my initial deployment in a 12-year mission among made St. Paul men, Long Beach natives, retired citizen soldiers, dads without wives and fellow seekers.
Sobriety is the first casualty of self-discovery.
Their names are irrelevant. Eight man-children in their early 30s up to 60. Dispassionate observers. Resigned Vikings fans. Rubber-neckers craning to measure all the cynicism and emotional scars.
Legacy members claim without evidence or attribution that the Vikings are 11-1 traveling through the NFL’s best party towns (But whoever thought Foxborough qualified for this junket needs their papers checked). A .967 winning percentage should be enough juice to leverage ownership for a 2022 subsidy.
How about a little something, Zygi, for the effort?
Two months ago, I learned the secret handshake from my connection, a committed social facilitator who promised an epic adventure with scant details. I knew nothing rolling through TSA Saturday morning. His was the only name identified on the text chain.
But the scope quickly came into focus at the Delta gate when I was summoned to the adjacent bar at 7 a.m., handed a beer and stack of drink tickets for the flight. I knew where this was headed.
Introductions were made, connections vetted, how many kids, yadda yadda. It was revealed, shortly before we boarded, that I would be writing about the weekend for PurpleInsider.
Eyebrows arched, then narrowed.
“What’s PurpleInsider?”
“A subscription website that covers the Vikings. But that’s not important right now.”
“Aha. So, what do you plan to write about?”
“I’m not sure yet. Gonna let the weekend organically unspool and see what I’ve got.”
Some nervous laughter. The guy who vouched for me assured the skeptics I would not make anyone look silly or have to lawyer up.
“Guys,” I insisted, “it’ll be a 40,000-foot view of masculine escapism and harmless shenanigans in the sun. Dudes being dudes. Maybe an Irish wake for the Vikings. Fear And Loathing at SoFi. Irreverent, but harmless.”
Tensions eased. I was let behind the curtain. Before my group number was called, the retired colonel and Iraq War veteran put his arm around me and said as softly and directly as possible, “Don’t break the trust.”
Gulp.
I had four hours in the back of coach to marinate in that mandate. Not that I had any notions of a gotcha piece. Not with my hand out for the pharmaceuticals and mind right for the marathon revelry that awaited.
Four hours later, the five Minnesotans touched the ground at LAX, piled into a black-tinted SUV and rolled out like a diplomats to rendezvous in Long Beach with the natives who practically are the colonel’s adopted sons.
I have worked and recreated in Los Angeles for years but never been to Long Beach, nestled on the shoreline between the urban jungle of downtown and buttoned-down pretentiousness of Orange County. Massive shipyards with stevedores working overtime to unclog the supply-chain bottlenecks that are driving prices and anxiety through the roof.
There is a blue-collar vibe coursing through the town and those we met. The patient servers who indulged us. The locals who navigated and lavished us with a multipurpose tailgating party that really tied the trip together like the Dude’s rug.
Mandatory shout out to the chef at George’s, the family-owned Greek restaurant in downtown Long Beach. Lambchops that melt in your mouth. Saganaki cheese (OHPA!) that warms the soul, ouzo shots that will burn right through it.
A hefty tab someone picked up. Warm smell of colitas rising up through the air. With daylight savings time a distant memory, I browbeat the crew to exit the shade and bask in the fast-fading sun. Hell, we could have sat in any bar in Minnesota after scraping our windshields.
The New Blues Festival was happening by the water, headlined by Tito Jackson, whom I never associated with new or the blues. No matter. The beers were especially tasty, the vibes reinforcing there was no place you’d rather be than right here, right now.
Enter stage right, one of the local veterans brought his girlfriend and her married friend. Women add instant credibility, self-possessed energy and needed humility to a crew of knuckleheads.
Every guy has their partner top of mind. My wife has my manhood in a jar on top of the mantel. The rules of engagement are so much easier without the superficial hunter-prey dynamic that dominates the meat market.
By nightfall, the plane partiers were ready to tap out. This is why sprinters cannot run marathons. The professionals know day-drinking cannot end without a late-night meal. So, it was a Neapolitan pizza joint in the tourist district for those playing the long game.
Sausage, squash and bell pepper out of the 700-degree woodfire oven is a munchie delight. The best, though, was running into our afternoon bartender, who was enjoying an after-hours dinner with her boyfriend. What troopers.
Not sure how I would feel about my intimate dinner being crashed by a half-dozen all-too-happy revelers who just know they are the funniest people in the room. Nonetheless, we sprinkled their evening with the right amount of glitter before calling it a night.
Gameday beckoned.
The Fantasyland Myth
Middle age is nothing if not regimented. I woke up at 6:30 a.m. Sunday as if my kitchen coffee maker started chirping. Only no kids to rustle for school. Just a head count for those pulling out of the previous night’s wreckage.
Irish coffee and a potato pancake might be the most cliched breakfast I’ve had. But not when it headlines the “Walk of Shame Specials” at the hotel café. Self-awareness and a sense of humor will get you farther than any diploma or certificate you hang on a wall.
It took 45 minutes up the 405 to get to SoFi Stadium, a silver oblong bauble with a translucent roof that dwarfs the adjacent Forum, where Magic Johnson made the Lakers “Showtime” and Wayne Gretzky made hockey cool in L.A. -- for a half hour or so anyway.
We dropped anchor atop a garage next to the Hollywood Casino. Only $75 instead of the $300 it takes to park on the blacktop 50 yards closer to the stadium. No one felt guilty about leaving the illegal charcoal grill behind after our hosts treated us to an endless buffet of Thai chicken wings, nachos, charcuterie, beer and medicinal pleasures.
We finally made it into the stadium with 11 minutes left in the second quarter. I think the Vikings were winning 3-0. Our seats were in section 5-something, though it might have been Utah. We never left the main concourse behind the south end zone, where the bar and bathroom were 20 feet away at all time.
The videoboard is so massive, so hi-def, so entrancing, it’s almost impossible to watch the action on the field. Not that there was much to see.
Justin Jefferson running around, catching everything. Kirk Cousins wandering around, falling ass-backwards into more success. Mike Zimmer stomping around, throwing dice like a riverboat gambler and going for the jugular for once, calling out his quarterback again afterward and preserving his fate for another week.
The sun melted below the western skyline as we ambled back to the car. Traffic was snarled for several hours. So, we fired up the grill again, broke out the folding table and coolers and eased our way to phase 2.
Most of the guys scattered for various rideshares. I hung back with the guy and his girlfriend as postgame was plotted for Long Beach. Only her car wouldn’t start. Dead battery. Someone had left on the headlights. No one claimed responsibility. Most of the suspects had already fled.
Waiting for jumper cables, I learned from my hosts that living day-to-day in SoCal ain’t all the unicorns and rainbows us interlopers see when they kite in and out of a place where the sun shines 350 days a year and the lure of celebrity is everywhere.
Not unless you can tolerate hourlong commutes to Costco or $800,000 starter homes. This couple is moving to Oregon later this month. He will continue his IT career. She is heading to grad school.
There is talk of marriage, kids and the 10-year age gap. Suddenly, my unsolicited wisdom on domestic tranquility is valued. I tell them not to overthink it. Let life organically unspool, like this weekend.
Then I tell them none of us are leaving. Ever. We are building a commune near Joshua Tree. We’ll grill Thai chicken and George’s lambchops every day, watch Sunday NFL Ticket and burn our winter clothes on a funeral pyre.
That was my last puff.
The battery was finally jumped. We made it back to Long Beach. But reality starting creeping in.
Some had to work on Monday. Others simply vanished into the night. Airport itineraries were haphazard.
I had a 6 a.m. flight to catch off a 4 a.m. wake-up call. I kept putting off writing until I could actually see the keyboard, vowing to write on the plane like crash-studying for a morning exam.
Except Spirit Airlines likes to cram its customers into their seats like cheap travelers overstuffing their carry-on bags. Monday Morning Murph would have to wait until Tuesday afternoon.
Drying out somewhere over the Continental Divide allowed me to fully process an unscripted adventure for the ages and appreciate the magic of esprit de corps.
The last five years have challenged everyone’s sense of security and place in a world gone mad. Two hospitalizations for depression and anxiety, a raging global pandemic and toxic political culture have stripped to the studs my professional and personal worldview.
Life is richest because of relationships, intimate and casual alike. It’s about common experiences and shared laughter. Of recognizing the moment and telling the person next to you.
Sunshine and substances can expand the horizon, but it is only fleeting. Regretting the past, fretting about the future, steals focus from the present. I only spent 48 hours in SoCal, but the two days I spent with soulmates in suspended reality will stay with me for a lifetime. Or until next season’s junket.
And that, colonel, you can trust.
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This is Murph at his best. I laughed out loud enough that my wife asked what I was reading. Then by the end felt like I left with a life lesson or three. Incredible.
Great read
Loved this!