Falling down a rabbit hole called Stockton
Uh-oh. I’m not going to be getting much of anything done for a while, I suspect. Dunno how I stumbled into this Facebook group called “You Know You Grew Up in Stockton When ???????????,” which contains eleven question marks and about a million posts, but I think this could be the rabbit hole that sucks me in for the immediate future, if not until sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Now, most of you with no Stockton connections or experiences most likely look at the seat of San Joaquin County as a geographic variation on the old punchline, “Why, the Aristocrats!” I even make Stockton jokes, too. But I can, because I grew up there, and my experiences and relationships in the town formed the core of my character. If I was from someplace else, like Sacramento or, God forbid, San Francisco (actually, I was born in Berkeley), I might be as boring and lackluster as the rest of you fuckers, but because I grew up in Berlin on the San Joaquin, I’ve got that extra twisted David Lynch smoking laudanum with Salvador Dali gene that welcomes darkness and weird shit like treasured old friends.
Anyway, it’s Friday, I’m dateless, ogling “chicks” in a coffeehouse and wanting to read more about Stockton. So, as the drunks say in Amador County: “Je bemte!” –Jackson Griffith