PERHAPS IT WAS TIME THAT I GAVE A REST, HOWBEIT BRIEFLY, TO THE USUAL DISCUSSION ON THE TOPICS OF THE DAY AS MAKE UP THIS BLOG'S FORTE and, instead, travel into the realms of fantasy and daydream likely to inspire some semblance of nostalgia, especially in certain parts of Southern California as wanted some variety in contrast to Disneyland.

As in certain mascot Trolls of the Magic Mountain variety from up Santa Clarita Valley way, nowadays more than likely living in enforced retirement and being the source of trivia questions galore (and probably living on in the minds of many, Your Correspondent included), and having some quasi-adventures in "getting high on fun" as antidote to a dysfunctional life in the backwaters of Southern California suburbia.

The sort of dysfunctionalism which has parents insisting that the kids leave the house for extended periods because the parents (the materfamilias in particular) fear being driven into the throes of a Major Nervous Breakdown, and (in theory) the parents hoping some relief may be had if the kids were somehow out of the way. (Only to have the parental units use the absence as an excuse to debauch themselves on liquor, drugs and child pornography.)

OK, OK: Imagine, if you will, your typical Southern California schoolkid in the throes of dysfunctional upbringing in an otherwise critical stage of their life as could only be made worse. And, it turns out, are made worse by the mother getting all too ballisto as he comes home from school on Friday ahead of the weekend (as in the inevitable appeals about the kid's driving the parents into a Nervous Breakdown, as if he's heard the same pathetic bromide over and over again, complete with the inevitable about "we were better off before you came along, and we'd be better off without you, so PLEASE--LEAVE. US. ALONE!" as suggests that he should leave the house for the parents' sake).

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WHICH, IN ANY EVENT, MANAGES TO BECOME STAGE CUE FOR THE ARRIVAL OF A RATHER ORDINARY-LOOKING CHEVY VAN ON THE OUTSIDE ... which, inside, is a rather crazy and @ once whimsical sort of escape hatch right out of the 1970's: Fuzzy dice on the rearview mirror, shag-pile carpeting on the floor, bucket seats, a mini-fridge stocked with Dr Pepper plum full, a case or two of Laura Scudder's potato chips (the world's noisiest, as anyone in the Southland knows), neon lights lining the dashboard and running board, '70's and early '80's hits playing nonstop on the CD, surfboards mounted on the roof, the smell of board wax and jasmine air freshener, all populated by a gaggle of wildish Southern California Trolls of the sort as used to populate a certain Magic Mountain in the Santa Clarita Valley.

The van being driven by a certain Bloop by name, still looking every inch his fun-fuelled self from the 1970's: Orange fur interspersed with maroon polkadots, big googly eyes, a rather warm and inspiring smile and personality, not to mention the laid-back hair as could be mistaken for a surf bum down Motherbu way. And riding along, a couple of female Trolls ("my girlfriends of the hour," Bloop will likely put it) and a couple of adolescent Trolls needing to be taught a few things about having fun by keeping alive the legacy of their Magic Mountain forebears in Vitamin F-fed fun. (Even the window is tinted somewhat, to keep down the glare as much as maintain the '70's ambiance.)

Bloop, in any case, comes out to meet the unfortunate kid as he's seen walking nearly forlorn, shaken by what the parents were telling him just moments ago ... and suggests that he maybe spend the weekend with them, learn about having some serious fun for once by spending some time with a bunch who knows all about having to have some fun in the first place. And riding shotgun, the kid pours his heart out about the state of dysfunctionalism he's having to live with to Bloop, all the platitudes the parents hand him about driving them to a nervous breakdown and all that, prompting Bloop to come out and insist that maybe he should Get High on Fun himself for once, and that this bunch of Trolls are willing to help.

The whole starting out on a rather long drive to locate a certain family dining sort of place that Bloop in particular "happens to know quite well" enough so that the whole party, Trolls and kid, can have a rather decent and yet fun sort of supper that manages to drag on well into the evening, what with Trolls in particular being fond of anything in the food department. And some rather lively conversation about the Southern California fun scene, managing to go incognito (or try to) in all the well-known hangouts of Southern California ... as well as a number of other places that Trolls alone know about, such as surfing beaches of particular ridability and hot spring pools close by.

Driving up the 101 past Ventura into the night, they manage to find what would be their bivouac of sorts: an out-of-the-way Troll enclave well out of sight of even the Pacific Coast Highway as turns out to be full of quite the number of California Trolldom just taking things easy and hoping to catch a few waves (as a matter of fact, California Trolls in particular are known to be especially adroit @ bodysurfing, but have been known to ride Malibu boards of their own construction, made largely from groundfall redwood and/or spruce, as Bloop explains to the kid on their approaching the enclave) and spend some time in the nearby hot springs baths (for some reason, Trolls and hot springs seem to go together).

All in the interest of getting their requisite allowance of Vitamin F ... by way of midnight chowder suppers and gabfests legendary in California Trolldom for swapping stories and witticism, as well as a rather unusually Trollish sense of hospitality especially directed @ the unfortunate, the outcast and the dysfunctional who stumble across their paths in their post-Magic Mountain lives. A hospitality as extends to our kid's being invited into an especially legendary hot-spring pool known to ease tired muscles and sprains from prolonged surfing and diving sessions as much as inspiring some lively conversation before a decent night's sleep on the beach, which can be rather chilly (thankfully, in the spirit of Troll hospitality, an extra sleeping bag was provided for by our hosts, not to mention the slap of the waves helping provide some atmosphere for sleeping.)

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NEXT MORNING FINDS OUR PARTY OF TROLLS, WITH THE DYSFUNCTIONAL KID NEEDING SOME HELP ALONG FOR THE RIDE, facing a rather bracing wind and some "rippah" waves for bodysurfing that our Troll heroes charge into as if getting ready for the day ahead, followed by a mug of strong black coffee. In any event, our kid is given a few worthwhile pointers about Troll-stylee surfing, as well as a couple lessons in bodysurfing whose reults attract the bewildered attention of some Trolls on the shore.

Which is enough for Bloop and friends to explain a few worthwhile things about California Trolldom to the kid en route to a breakfast place of the kind Bloop and Company "happen to know about" for serving rather hearty such, and in generous portions:

• As Trolls happen to be creatures of such environment they happen to be in, they're equally fond of not just surfing, but also underwater diving (they're especially good @ it, and can dive down to 60 feet rather smoothly; that, and their eyes being suited well enough so they don't really need a mask while underwater), long hikes followed by tenting excursions, snowboarding and even browsing the malls, with plenty of conversation to be expected among fellow Trolls regardless of where they encounter other such.
• One thing California Trolls learn early on is the art of bodysurfing, and the culture surrounding the California Troll mindset thereof--usually in special week-long camps that also turn out to be one of the first places a Troll will learn "the facts of life," largely through crazy interaction with fellow Trolls of their own age as are pretty close to their flowering (and which usually leads to some introllesting friendships in the process).
  
• By nature, California Trolls tend to be people-watchers (a product of their Magic Mountain phase; the fact of which was duly noted on the Steam Train to Trollywood), but prefer their privacy when it comes to mating (which they're not shy about doing, and enjoy as much for fun as for perpetuating the species ... as well as discussing without going into repulsive detail, in keeping with the beauty of a perfectly natural and yet magical act).
• Trolls, though aloof and tending to the incognito in the night, will like to crash the occasional party, yet all the while being good-natured and well-meaning in their intentions. They're also fond of long walks on the beach on moonlit nights, the surf culture, relaxing in mountain streams during long hikes, trying out new experiences (and sharing the details in conversation) and '70's pop music.

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