Foiled again!

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am

I have no one but myself to blame.

When I chose the title “Train Keeps on Rolling” for my newsletter last Wednesday, did I know that I would soon be a passenger on a train?

I did.

I’d even purchased a one-way ticket on the Pacific Surfliner between LA’s Union Station and San Diego’s Santa Fe Depot for later that very afternoon. It’s a ride I always look forward to and enjoy because it reminds me of when Nuvia and I were dating. Because I lived in LA and she lived in SD one of us took the train just about every weekend. Lots of happy reunions and sad farewells on train platforms. The Surfliner was such a big part of our relationship, we even considered getting married at Union Station.

With such a bold title, did I know that I was arousing the ire of the newsletter gods, ensuring that the train would not keep on rolling, that it would, in fact, come to a complete standstill somewhere between the Fullerton and Anaheim stations?

No, I did not. But that’s where I found myself a few hours after sending last week’s newsletter.

The Pacific Surfliner definitely not rolling

Did I know that when a train comes to stop somewhere between the Fullerton and Anaheim stations it means it has lost all power, including the ability to circulate air, charge electronic devices, flush toilets, and make announcements over the public address system?

Again, the answer would be no. But I would learn very quickly that this was indeed the case.

After about fifteen minutes of going nowhere, a pair of passengers abandoned the train. Fifteen minutes later, they were joined by more desperate travelers. After forty-five minutes, the train began to empty out. It was getting uncomfortably hot, and we all had places to be.

The only surprise was that no one tried to stop us. I’d been stuck on the Surfliner before. About fifteen years ago I was on a train that struck a pedestrian while approaching the Fullerton station. Apparently, the individual was in some distress and stepped in front of the moving train. This simple act turned the train into a crime scene and even though we were just a few hundred feet away from the Fullerton station, no one was allowed on or off the train. I was sharing a table with two Irish tourists. It was Kentucky Derby day and I’d spent the morning at Hollywood Park. I’d had a good day at the track and bought a six-pack of Tecate for the ride home. When the conductor announced that we would be stuck for some time I offered each of the Irishmen a beer, who were delighted to know that they could drink on the train and even more delighted to learn that the café car was fully stocked with alcohol—though not for long. I don’t know how much Corona the Surfliner had stocked but we drank all of it. Every last bottle. I think we moved on to Budweiser but I don’t really recall. Whatever it was we drank all of that too. The train did get rolling again and by the time we got to San Diego the three of us were completely shitfaced and scrawling down illegible phone numbers so we could stay in touch forever, which never happened. Ah the gruesome old days…

This time the café car was closed because the registers didn’t work, which is probably a good thing because by the time I got off the train the scene looked like this:

Chaos, right?

The conductor was on the phone and I heard different stories about what would happen next. Another train would couple with our train and tow us back to Fullerton. Or, the Coaster would come along and take us as far as Oceanside.

No communication, no leadership, no plan. This was Anaheim not Odesa or Mariupol or Kyiv. So I tried to take it all in stride, but neither returning to Fullerton or moving on to Oceanside were as attractive as my present location, which was approximately one mile from my sister-in-law’s house in Anaheim.

So I took in on the heel and toe and shanked it to my sister-in-law’s house. It was a beautiful day for a walk, I travel light, and I was still buzzing from the incredible show I’d seen the night before.

Setbacks are only setbacks if they, you know, set you back. (It’s content like this that sets Message from the Underworld apart from other newsletters.)

I have no idea what happened to the train or to my fellow passengers. I hope they made it home safely.

As for me, I had a delicious Indian dinner and caught up with Nuvia’s sister, Gissel. As it turns out, we had a lot to discuss. Nuvia’s dad is going through some health issues and we’ve all been spending more time with him.

Gissel let me borrow her car and I drove home to San Diego later that evening—long after traffic died but not, unfortunately, before the construction on the 5 throttled a long section of the freeway down to one lane.

The next day I shared my Surfliner story on Twitter and eventually heard from the train’s social media team who took my information and submitted a claim for compensation. I started following the Surfliner on Twitter and there are a lot more delays and interruptions of service than I would have guessed.

It just goes to show that the odds of one’s train breaking down on the tracks are low, but they’re never zero.

Corporate Rock Sucks Link-O-Rama

The Winnipeg Free Press posted a very nice review earlier this week and not one, not two, but three podcasts and radio shows went live.

The first is Only Three Lads, which I recorded last week in Brooklyn. I discussed the book with the show’s hosts and then all three of us offered our top five SST tracks.

Then I had the honor of appearing on You Don’t Know Mojack. This was special for me because this was pretty much the only podcast I listened to while I was writing the book. For the uninitiated, You Don’t Know Mojack, which takes its name from one of Greg Ginn’s many projects called Mojack, does a deep dive on every single SST release. The podcast has been going on for several years (and will continue for several more) so I had a lot of episodes to catch up on. Whenever I was tired of transcribing, or struggling to find what I was looking for, or exhausted from writing all day, there was always a new episode of You Don’t Know Mojack to get me excited about SST again. Not only are Ryan and Brant extremely knowledgeable, they’re the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet who never hesitated to share resources with me and cheered me on while writing the book. The first time I heard my name on the podcast was a thrill and I felt as though the whole world knew I was writing a book about SST. Their friendship was a true difference maker.

Lastly, I was a guest on the Best Show yesterday. My interview with Tom Scharpling was pre-recorded earlier in the afternoon and is already up. To prep for the show, I read Tom’s book It Never Ends and was fascinated to learn about the indie music zine he created when he was in his early 20s and his long stint as a writer for the Emmy-winning show Monk, which I’ve always found oddly moving. In any case, Tom is very passionate and very knowledgeable about SST (in his book he name checks Das Damen and Volcano Suns) and like me, counts The 82 Demos among Black Flag’s best work. Check it out!

Mountain Time

If you’re going to be in Running Springs this Saturday (and why wouldn’t you be) or anywhere in the San Bernardino mountains for that matter, I’m reading at the Faktory. Click here for more details.

Thanks for reading. Next week I’ll have the story behind the story of my next profile for the LA Times. Safe travels!