Coffee, Crushes, and Road Trips: Tales from the 90s
From studying for midterms to chasing blue moons, a journey of missteps, friendships, and finding my place among the cool kids.
As I mentioned before, there was this coffee spot I used to haunt called See’s Coffee—the place I was never quite cool enough to work at. It wasn’t your typical Santa Barbara scene. No sun-kissed volleyball players or overly enthusiastic folks in pastel sweaters. See’s had a much edgier, art-alternative vibe. Local art hung on the walls, good music flowed through the speakers, and next door was a record store, which only amplified its effortless cool factor.
It was like every indie coffee shop straight out of a 90s movie. Picture any Hal Hartley film or My Own Private Idaho, Singles, or my all-time favorite, Reality Bites. Leather jackets, Doc Martens, and cigarettes ruled the scene. I used to smoke Camels, and my favorite was the Camel Wides. Nothing screamed “artsy intellectual” like chain-smoking those while pretending I had life figured out. I can’t even imagine the sheer volume of pseudo-intellectual (or just flat-out ridiculous) conversations we had over countless cups of coffee, surrounded by a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Tom from Germany and I would hang out there for hours. The place always seemed to draw in these effortlessly cool indie girls who were the complete antithesis of Santa Barbara’s volleyball-playing, sun-worshiping socialites. These girls had attitude, walls, and an air of mystery that both intrigued and intimidated me. They weren’t there to smile and make small talk—they were draped in black, armed with dark humor, and carried an aura of "don’t mess with us."
Somehow—probably because Tom broke the ice or we loitered there long enough—it became natural to talk to them. They were students at a private prep school in Ojai, the so-called “bad kids” who smoked, listened to Joy Division, and exuded a coolness I could only dream of. NS, SA, and LM became part of our orbit, and their friend JH, who worked at the local music store, rounded out the group. JH was a permanent fixture in black, he sold instruments instead of CDs, which made him even cooler. Together, they were like this clique of indie misfits who managed to make Santa Barbara feel less beachy and more brooding.
Breaking through their walls took time. But eventually, we found ourselves sharing cigarettes, drinking coffee, and dissecting music, movies, and how much we didn’t vibe with the Santa Barbara scene.
Santa Barbara is a weird place. It’s close enough to L.A. that you could almost touch it, and the locals loved to look down on the “shallow, pretentious” Angelenos who came up to relax in their second or third homes. Meanwhile, deep down, most of us secretly dreamed of escaping to L.A., hoping for a chance to play in the big sandbox. The irony wasn’t lost on me then, and it definitely isn’t now.
Writing this has been a trip down memory lane. It’s wild to think about those times and the connections that stuck. I’m still in touch with SA, NS, and JH, which feels like a small miracle. We shared incredible adventures, hilarious stories, and countless late-night debates over dime-store philosophies. For a time, we were a unit, spending weekends out together and weekdays holding court at coffee shops, trying to outwit and entertain each other with our budding, half-formed takes on life.
One night, while pretending to study for midterms at a coffee shop, JH casually asked if I wanted to go to New Orleans to visit LM. I looked up from my half-hearted attempt at cramming and asked when he was thinking. “We should probably leave in a couple of hours to make good time,” he said, like this was the most normal suggestion in the world. I hesitated for about half a second before finding myself in the passenger seat of his brand-new Acura, lightning storms exploding around us as we crossed the desert. This was before cell phones, and honestly, I’m not even sure LM knew we were coming.
Growing up in Baraboo, on welfare with my shitshow of a mother, planted this mindset in me that I wasn’t good enough. Most days now, I know that’s not true, but back then, I believed it wholeheartedly. Even when I was living on top of the hill in Montecito with my dad, I always felt like I didn’t belong, like I was just waiting for the cool kids to realize I was an imposter in their world of hipness, intelligence, and effortless beauty.
One drunken night at a party at HG’s place, the crew showed up, as they often did. We always seemed to know what everyone else was up to—tabs were unofficially kept. That night, under a full moon, I was doing my best impression of an emo artsy guy from a Kevin Smith movie: sitting in the yard, drinking, staring at the moon, and probably overthinking everything. NS came over, we shared a cigarette, and with my liquid courage in full swing, I told her I had a crush on her. She looked at me, took a drag, and asked if I knew what tonight was. I shook my head, trying to seem mysterious. She told me it was a blue moon. I stared blankly, not realizing the significance or what to say. She shook her head, took my cigarette, and walked off. It wasn’t until much later that I realized I had completely blown it. I was so out of my depth, fumbling through leagues I had no business playing in.
SA, on the other hand, was everything—smart, cool, beautiful, and kind. We spent countless hours together laughing, sharing stories, and just existing in that effortless way you can only do with people who really get you. As we grew older, I got to know her family well. Her dad was one of the sweetest, warmest people I’d ever met, with a smile that could light up the room. Whenever I was in Santa Barbara, I’d make it a point to visit them, share a meal, and catch up.
Now, as I write these stories, I wonder how much is too much to share. What would the people on the other side of these memories want me to say? Would they want me to share photos of them, even if the stories are kind and free of any drama? Or is that crossing a line? It’s a delicate balance—how much of someone else’s life can you put on display just because it intersected with yours?
What do you think? You might end up in one of these future stories. Can I share your image? Can I go deeper, past the surface-level anecdotes and into the raw, personal stuff? Or does it all just get too complicated?