Dirty Crooked Exit Sign

My home town is rustic, the technology crude. It is hard for stores to stay in business and now that the economy has plummeted, there are chains of empty spaces for rent along main street. Still the ocean-side town drudges on, and opens up new places. "Clubs." The word 'club' in my mind is associated with words, like Chic, elegant, dress code, funky, edgy. These words are not associated with clubs in my home town.

There is one location in particular that is morphing from one club to the next over and over. Last time I was there it was called "Crazy Fish." Before that it was called "Pluto" or "Neptune." Now it is something else. I didn't stop by. I went to another spot. The Coo Coo's Nest. The name of a place is always, "Olympic" because we are next to the Olympic National Park. Or it has something to do with the ocean as we are on the shore. Or it has something to do with New Age mixed with crazy. There are variations, such as "Crazy Fish" and on another street there was another place called "The Luna." That place had quite good food but sadly they no longer exist.

The Coo Coo's Nest however, just opened up...right next to the laundromat. Of course. Instead of admiring the home sweet-home-geese adorning the walls from 1982, you can go get yourself a beer. Right next door. The interior is 'remodeled.' meaning it got a new coat of paint, a rope of twinkle lights and some original local art (which is noticeably local.) Navy blue is the reigning color. The ceilings are low, like someones low-rent one-story house. The walls are nothing but dry wall and plaster, there is no flat screen TV, but an old black box is in the upper corner (VHS only) much like the ones next door at the 'mat.' It is then that I notice that there is an exit sign, grey beige clay, like the exterior of a 1989 Macintosh computer. The letters glow green, crooked and smudged unevenly, with what looks like a hefty collection of dust. I notice this from across the room.

There are no levels or stairs or weird shaped furniture. There are two pool tables each lit with a stained glass lamp head. There is a juke box near by. The candles lit in the booths give the place a medieval feel. Like we should all be wearing trench coats of fur and carrying swords and daggers. Not to mention that in spite of the winter season, the place seems to be unheated. Everyone is happy from drinks and conversation but they are bundled in coats and scarves. I just can't get over the crooked dusty exit sign. There are even patches in the walls where the sheet rock ended and there is just plywood, painted over with navy blue.

I don't entirely mean to criticise this place. I speak of it with affection. Is it only in my home town nearly in Canada that a building is gutted, repainted and left with a crooked dirty exit sign? There are other places. There must be.

Jared, Jesse and myself sat in a candle-lit trench-coat and dagger booth. Believe it or not I felt very at home talking about life over a few beers with two of the pack I grew up with in my home town. My roots are in this place and I am not ashamed. I love the dirty crooked exit sign. I love where I came from. I was born in a log cabin, my Mother taught me religion and I grew up in this town just shy of Canada. My roots. My bricks. My rain. My child hood and my people.

These are the things I take back with me to inland Southern California where Starbucks baristas wear hats, where fashion mutters in bright colors, "Want to fuck me just kidding." Where sand is imported. Where beige terracotta homes echo their desert song, and rejoice, because they all cheated, and brought water to the desert.

A person like myself always has an itch to see the water line. "It must be just over that hill." I will never be at home here, but I feel alleviated of my anxiety to know what home means for me. I no longer fear losing that. Home is blood pumping hearts in the people I love close by and also far away, and also the ones that I have yet to meet. Home is grit and forbearance. It is comfort of the soul. Different things comfort different people and though these things are not always near us we carry them if we only realize it. A home in only one place on this earth is but a phantom. My home. The things that comfort me. Comfort is ocean. It is love. It is the music I beget. It is as big as a mountain and as small as a sip of Merlot. These are the things I take with me. I realize them. What is home for you? What is your comfort? What things do you realize? What do you itch to see? Just over that hill.