The truth comes out

(From the Register-Pajaronian)

When I found myself buying a matched pair of martini glasses imported from Hawaii, I knew things had finally gone too far.

For years before I moved here, I'd heard that Santa Cruz was one of those places that changed a person. Some folks seemed to believe it was a life-defining experience, like visiting the Wailing Wall or the Vatican, except with drugs. Others saw it more as an insidious liberal influence that could flare back up without warning throughout the rest of a man's life, like political malaria. Either way, people were sure I wouldn't make it six months out here without going native.

I was skeptical. In a lot of ways, I fancy myself to be of the George W. Bush school of personal development: I'll be the same guy on Wednesday as I was on Monday, no matter what happens on Tuesday. You may call it shallow, but we refer to it as "resolute." Anyway, it was going to take a lot more than moderate winters and a few girls that looked good in bathing suits to knock me off my course, whatever course that was. I was prepared to take my chances with the hippies if it meant never having to use a defroster again.

Everything started out normal. For months I ignored the panhandlers on Pacific Avenue and made fun of the Umbrella Man. I studiously avoided discussions about the University of California regents and refused to learn the clever acronyms and noble aims of activist groups. I resisted the urge to decorate my apartment as though it were a surf shack. And above all, I did not wear flip-flops or wifebeater undershirts in public. I was a pillar of Nevada values (now there's an expression you don't hear very often) being smothered by a tide of beach bunnies.

As they so often are, the first cracks in the levee were almost imperceptible. I started taking a more lackadaisical approach to shaving and went longer between haircuts than I had since "MacGyver" was on TV. I'd walk down to the water and spend 15 minutes watching the waves before I realized that I had no real reason to be there.

I sank deeper. First, I visited the Mystery Spot and brought home a souvenir sticker. Later, I got angry when I heard they were building a new Safeway on 41st Avenue. Then, to my abject horror, I caught myself whining about tourists from "over the hill." Who was this new guy, this pseudo-local yokel who thought the folks who lived 30 minutes from the beach instead of 2 were second class citizens? And yet, I couldn't keep from wondering "Why can't those yuppies go surf someplace else?"

I found clarity while Christmas shopping. Throughout my life, I've had a tendency to buy others gifts that I'd like to have myself, which explains why my sister used to get a lot of Bad Religion albums and my dad owns most of the "Calvin and Hobbes" library. I thought I had it beat, but as the woman behind the counter at Zen Trading Co. aded up the tax on a pair of tiki bar martini glasses Monday afternoon, the contrary evidence turned me pale.

What are my loved ones getting from me this year? Island-themed cocktail ware, obscure South American literature and a CD from KPIG 107.5 FM. Good lord, I've become a Santa Cruzan. Welcome me to the fold with warm embraces, brothers and sisters, for now I am truly one of you.

•••

It's Christmas time again. Time to be nice to the people you can't stand all year. I'm growing tired of all this Christmas cheer. You people scare me. Please stay away from my home. If you don't want to get beat down, just leave the presents and then leave mfarley@register-pajaronian.com alone.