[Test Link] The Sad Dad Bar of Silicon Valley, the Triumph of Algeria, and the Emotions of Mid-Flight Movies (Copy)

I was spending my Sunday afternoon somewhere above the western half of the country, once again watching The Big Lebowski. Say what you will about the tenants of “Dudeism” (and people who make a movie their entire personality), but at least it’s an ethos.

So, to speak.

I guess.

I don’t mean to suggest that this film is an integral part of my identity, but I (like many) adore it; a movie I can always depend on.

And I was in search of comfort—an attempt to truly calm down, relax, and release whatever stress I possibly could before landing in California for a short vacation. Air travel, even under the best of circumstances, always seems to eat at this specific part of me. Not for fear of flying, but rather a temporal anxiety that doesn’t truly ease up until I’ve stopped moving for the day. One preceded by nightmares of being late for everything from flights to jobs I had two decades ago.

So, I figured (hoped), that perhaps by osmosis, I could channel the mentality of Jeff Bridge’s iconic character. Or, at the very least, John Goodman’s: “Calmer than you [I] are [am].”

As great as The Big Lebowski is, though, I always find a certain melancholy when watching it. As if it’s making me mourn something I not only never really knew, but couldn’t possibly have lost—both the plotting’s setting and film’s release having occurred when I was a child.

But it’s easy to look at a bowling alley from the 1990s still clad with its 1950s accoutrements and think: times were simpler. Because, 28 years later (not an intentional movie reference), the world often feels like an inane apocalypse. One that’s seemingly transitioned from a society that wouldn’t let “aggression” stand to one that’s propelling an endless amount of “unchecked aggression.” And even if you can manage to occasionally cobble together the privilege of carrying a computer in your pocket that contains one of your favorite movies (all while traveling across the continent for leisure), you probably can’t stop yourself from wondering what fresh hell the the headlines will have upon landing. For not just you, but everyone. Even the guy with the repulsive cologne who’d been unsuccessfully flirting with the gate agent before trying his luck up here with a stewardess after having left behind a puddle of what was hopefully just errant sink water in the lavatory.

“Hasn’t that ever occurred to you, man?”

“Sir‽”

I don’t know what in god’s name I was blathering about when I started with this whole Lebowski point, but the fact of the matter was that I didn’t have any good reason to feel apprehensive. After all, I only had very little lined up on the day’s docket: get back on the ground, head in a general direction, and find a bar where I could get “a couple of oat sodas.” Something that’d be easy enough to accomplish after hopping on a (Cal)train and then a rapid bus before sauntering down the sun-soaked streets of Silicon Valley.

The lesson I’d eventually come to accept as being learned, however, was that all dives are essentially the same—no matter what stickers exist as wallpaper within their hallowed halls. Even if the price for a PBR draft was right, it was readily clear that the particular place I’d found myself in probably wasn’t for me.

Several years ago, after politely pushing through an unsettlingly awkward interview for a “real job” that left me dismayed at the future, I parked my then-21-year-old self on a downtown Cincinnati barstool. There, I’d inadvertently found myself between two men who were apparently mid-conversation and intending to continue their commiserating through me. As the duo soaked their slightly-graying beards in suds and buffalo sauce, neither had “the kids” that weekend, but both were apparently still paying for them. It’s not that I didn’t sympathize with, or believe, their plight—but it was an unsettlingly depressive thing to experience at 3 PM on a Tuesday. And now it was 3 PM on a Sunday, decades later, on the other side of the country, and fittingly ironic for having yet again stumbled into another “sad dad bar” situation: Father’s Day.

Both America’s pastime and The World Cup be damned, this exuberant group of lubricated and loud attention-seekers wanted golf on the tv. And they hounded the bartender until they got it, squeaking their permanently sun-tanned skin on the bar top as they shuffled to see the screen. All while competing to retrieve the most nostalgic reference from the deepest depths of their Gen-X souls.

“Shannon Doherty? Wasn’t that her? What was that show… oh, shit… look at his swing! That’s what I do on the course sometimes! He’s gotta tighten that shit up! Fuck is he doing‽ You’d never see me swing that wild!”

Indeed, it was wild. Why wasn’t he out on the links with the world’s best? How’d he end up here, anyways?

“Guys, guys, guys… look, I mean, listen,” said one of his companions while trying to raise the group’s spirits with another round of shots and jukebox picks: “I played this song so we could all have a moment.”

They raised their glasses to “all the dads” as their generation’s bittersweet anthem of The Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony” played out before devolving into a playlist of early 2000’s butt rock.

And look, I’m all for toasting to Limp Bizkit over a couple cans of Busch Light, but I draw the line at Uncle Kracker.

Mercifully, they shuffled out the door to leave me with a few moments of peace before I myself had to flee. It hadn’t been a totally dour experience—it’s hard to feel sad in the “warm California sun” (as the Rivieras once elucidated)—but as Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” came over the speakers, I could still hear them out in the parking lot. Comedically substituting the star of Who’s the Boss into the lyrics of that classic song.

“Hold me closer, TONY DANZA!”

Remember that joke?

They did.

• • •

Eventually, after rendezvousing with my lovely girlfriend and our kind friends, we found ourselves in San Jose’s Japantown…

…before wandering the city’s downtown:

And in the evening, we traveled to LEVI’s Stadium the San Francisco Bay Area Stadium to watch Jordan take on Algeria in a Group J matchup of the 2026 FIFA World Cup:

*Levi’s Stadium* *famously had to have many of its sponsors covered during the 2026 World Cup* *when it temporarily became San Francisco Bay Area Stadium. In the above photograph, the logo of the iconic clothing company is covered.*

On the concourse, Bud Light was allowed to remain in this specific sign, but “Toyota Gate” (bottom) and “US Bank” (middle) were obscured. The top cover, interestingly, was not a corporate sponsor. It just said “Upper Concourse” at one point.

*VTA light rail trains lined up for the post-match exodus.*

Levi’s Stadium logo obscured above each scoreboard and despite being seen elsewhere in the stadium: Bud Light was also covered (left).

*Looking into Santa Clara/Silicon Valley.*

One of the best sporting events and soccer matches I’ve ever had the opportunity of attending.

On our last day near San Jose, we went on this great bike ride…

*Google Bay View/James Bond villain Headquarters.*

…before catching a train the next morning to San Francisco:

A city now void of its iconic fountain:

One the flight home—instead of watching The Big Lebowski once again—I opted for True Romance at the suggestion of a friend. It had those same melancholic, 1990s/end of 35mm film, California sunset (and Detroit winter) vibes.

Beautiful.

But watching it while surrounded by fellow discount airline passengers—that just intensified my time-related, travel anxieties.

“How much longer till we land?”

“Remember when Christian Slater played Cincinnati’s mayor?”

“Am I gonna catch the bus or have to wait?”

“Oh, this is a pretty violent movie to watch in public.”

“Why do people stand up as soon as the seatbelt light goes off?”

“That was the guy from Perfect Strangers.”

In the end, I enjoyed that movie and managed to catch the bus I needed. Spent the ride home thinking, though, that the ending could’ve been better if instead of seeing Alabama, Clarence, and Elvis happy on a beach somewhere—we instead saw them watching tv. And on the screen would be an in-progress episode of TJ Hooker where Dick is driving a car and Bill Shatner’s on the hood.

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