There was this time…(pt. 11)

That stage to the right has Clapton all over it.

I know what you’re thinking.

Come on, you can’t possibly have another story from your past as ridiculous as the rest.


Yes, I can. AND it’s not even from a long ago past.

How, for the love of all things holy, could I not be the paragon of dignity at this advanced age?

Stupid question. If I learned things, I wouldn’t need a blog to write it all down to entertain you, otherwise. Dur.

I began this with a particular story in mind. I can’t tell that one without telling this first. You’ve been warned.

At this place where I’m still working and, if I play my cards right, I hope to for the rest of my life. Like one day a week, tops. Because I have to. I can’t let this continue without being a part of it. How is it possible that I didn’t know it has existed for my entire life without hearing about it is beyond me. Had I known, I probably would have started working there at 15 instead of the crappy Korean deli/liquor store/deliquency-contributorship that I did work in.

Actually, I take that back. Songs, or Del Mar Fine Wines as I’m sure most of us didn’t know it was actually named, was probably safer for me since it eventually closed.

Campland-on-the-Bay, however, is still running, 60 years later, and where I, with almost 4 years under my belt, am still considered the newbie. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened to me had I found its fountain of perpetual fantasyland at 15. Well, all I have to do to find out is ask the many employees of 15/20/30+ years what year they think it is now.

Hint: 19something.

The bizarre thing about Campland…hahahaha. Sorry. I’ll start over.

One of the many bizarre things about Campland is how many celebrities visit there.


Almost more than the world-famously-poorly-run-yet-hilarious Miramar Hotel in Santa Barbara. Campland is the spiritual twin of the Miramar and, someday, if I have more time or the energy you’ll hear about that, too.

But regarding Campland’s especially rich celebrity influence, one day in 2017, as I’m checking-in mostly grumpy Karens and Chad-like individuals, I start talking to a nice man who was a bandmate of Tom Petty. I can’t remember which bandmate, which makes my story sound suspicious, but it’s legit, I promise. We talked because we had people in common when I worked for Kenny Loggins. I just don’t remember if he was the bassist, drummer, Cheshire Cat-wrangler or whatever. We chatted. It was nice. He was nice.

The guy who isn’t Tom Petty

He invited me to come to his campsite to continue our conversation about the people we knew in common later that evening. Before he left the office, though, he told us how he brought Eric Clapton to Campland and the two of them played guitar on the stage, impromptu, just because. -see first photo-

And how no one listened. Well, no one paid attention anyway. In total Campland fashion.

Sadly, Tom Petty died that night and this bandmate left without giving me that drink. The nerve, right?

That story is only prefacing this one.

No, not the adorable story behind the picture of me and Jason Day minutes after he won the Torrey Pines Open in sudden death.

Still sweaty and full of adorbs. Jason. I wasn’t sweaty.

Not that story. That story is just full of me always having food shoved into my mouth when sexy Jason came into my hemisphere. Like a lot of food. The first time was an entire half of a Snickers bar. The second time was me shooting cookie pieces out of my mouth trying to apologize for the Snickers incident.

No, it’s another story. Hmmm. Now, I can’t remember. It’ll come to me.

It may need another post.

-insert infuriating wink-

More to come…