When a Day at the Beach is Not a Day at the Beach

What perverse aberration causes people to go to a beach that is completely empty except for dog walkers and set up shop right next to me? Upwind and smoking. Why does my presence in a particular area make it the designated beach blanket spot?

1. I don't care how many tattoos you and your girlfriend have between you. You do not have the right to force me to move a mile or so down the beach to get away from you.

2. What kind of moron brings a boombox here to drown out lapping waves while birds soar overhead, calling to each other?

Scientists should study the magnetic force I exert on my fellow humans, (and I use that term advisedly,) who have no apparent interest in communing with Nature, and feel compelled to ensure that I can't either. I would like to know what spawns this behavior so I can fix it.

Beaches are the last frontier. They are among the few places that still have constant change and movement. Structures do not stand in sand, nor are there malls, offices or even Starbucks by this shore. What remains is rushing tide, egrets and gulls, native plants.

On beaches, I both forget and remember who I am, far from hungry eyes consuming all they light upon. I wear no labels by the shore. I could be anyone. In anonymity is freedom, a concept that has become suspect in our national life today.

I could gain weight here, for being outdoors makes me hungry. The simplest fare's a banquet when sitting on hot sand with cool breeze riffling my hair.

A small blue fishing boat sails in under a cloud of seagulls. It's obvious they have made a good haul.

A flock of pelicans swoops by single file, 13 in all, browsing the waves in search of supper.

I watch a dog sniff another dog's ass, then lift his leg and piss on the first dog.

No dogfight ensues.

There seems to be an unspoken rule of life here: The world is divided into two camps, the pissers and the pissees.

You know who you are.

Proclamation

I just realized that today is my blog's one-year anniversary. I timidly put up my first post on June 13, 2006.

How time flies when you're having fun!

Cake will be served in the main rotunda, and you are all welcome.

Be there. (Yes, this means YOU.)

Shipwrecked

I have always had fantasies about being shipwrecked on a desert island. Perhaps I was overly influenced by "Robinson Crusoe" because I always imagined and even planned on it.

"Lord of the Flies" would be a less favorable outcome, of course.

It is not lost on me that some people endure their entire lives without ever being shipwrecked, but still, I have hopes.

I have devoted much thought to what I would take with me, made lists, even. Gloated over the fact that my appendix would never burst in the middle of nowhere because it already has. Asked myself endlessly what one book I would choose if I had to read it over and over.

Many folks would choose the Bible. I would not. I would want something that is easier to read and has no ambiguity. Hel-lo, I'm on a desert island here. I need things simple.

In fact, any book I read that many times would soon be memorized, so I think I would opt for a thick pad of blank lined paper. And many pens. I would write my own book on that island, and maybe reach enlightenment.

You never know.

At least there wouldn't be so many distractions.

My ex-husband once locked me in a room to force me to write after learning that Colette's husband had done so to her. (He also stole her writings and put his own name on them, the dirty scoundrel.)

I did not take kindly to being locked in a room for any reason. Since I have a photographic memory, I reproduced the first page of "Ulysses," complete with the giant "S" that in most editions is several lines high.

"Stately plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed."

"I'm ready to come out now," I called sweetly.

He eagerly ran to unlock the door, ecstatic that his wonderful plan had worked.

I handed him my James Joyce simulation and flounced away.

We never discussed the incident again.

It is possible that on my desert island, I would merely reproduce other famous works while worrying about high tide. How ironic if I actually wrote the Great American Novel and then got swept off the island in a storm before any publishers could get there.

Life is uncertain.

I have always found geography exciting despite my teachers' best efforts to make it dreary. My soul expands when I hear intriguing place names like Madagascar, Timbuktoo, Casablanca, Pago Pago, Katmandu, and Poontang, which I saw in a book but got smacked when I asked my father where it was. Nobody told me why.

The Amazon River Basin is perennially a luscious dark green in my mind. Rio de Janeiro is golden. Machu Pichu is shades of pink and purple and the Aegean Sea is always a shimmering turquoise.

My first Gauguin painting at the Metropolitan Museum ("Femmes Aux Mangoes") changed me forever. Tahiti was my Promised Land, the place I was meant to be but for a tragic geographical mishap. Or perhaps it was my real home from which I was kidnapped as an infant. I found a Tahitian-English dictionary and set about memorizing words in my former native tongue.

When I was 22, I sailed to Europe on a student ship out of Montreal. Ron Silvers, the actor, was a stowaway. He had no luggage, just the wide-striped t-shirt and pants he was wearing. He was a complete ass. I couldn't stand him. He gets a lot of work on TV now, and every time I see him, I wonder if he is still an ass. (Probably.)

The idea of someone stowing away on a ship enchanted me, though I never had the courage to try it. Such limitations in my adventurous spirit have always disappointed me.

The ship was German, and Werner the bartender, pronounced Verner, vatered my drinks every night.

I confronted him, and he said that he was doing it to protect me. Needless to say, this infuriated me. I wanted as much chance as the next girl to be taken advantage of.

It was the story of my life. I looked so innocent that even my assurances to the contrary made guys want to protect me from themselves.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Hurt me. Hurt me."

For years I had to live like this. The whole thing was depressing.

Now I watch ships steam out to sea through the Golden Gate Bridge, laden with cargo and passengers. I think about latitude and longitude, words that conjure unbearably romantic reveries. I taste the salt air and feel the waves under me.

The possibility of shipwreck is tantalizing.

And then it dawns on me that I would no longer relish being shipwrecked on a desert island. I have a family. It would be unthinkable to never see them again. I am addicted to my computer, and there is also the matter of chocolate.

We outgrow our fondest dreams because we have changed. Life changes us, for that was the plan all along. Our priorities change, and somehow, the whole world changes as well.

The solution is to grow new dreams that reflect who we have become. The shipwreck mentality can still serve us to make new choices, to retain only the things that are truly essential to our lives and our sanity.

When we examine our values and clean house, we become more fully ourselves. Thinning the herds of ideas and objects that no longer express who we are is empowering.

It can feel nearly as free as being on a desert island in the middle of the ocean, without the sunstroke.

No Bull

I once had a friend, a charming fellow who was, in fact, the first Chicano to graduate from Harvard Law School. His name was Enrique, but he Americanized it to "Hank." His wife, Millie, was often in India meditating with the Maharishi, so Hank spent a lot of time with my then-husband and me. He was old enough to be our father, but we all shared a passion for literature and travel.

The day his teenage son got into a wreck and killed his best friend, Hank was having dinner with us. In the aftermath, we all spent many hours trying to help his son cope with his enormous guilt. I pointed out to Hank that it was actually a blessing that his son had sustained a broken leg in the accident because if he had walked away without injury, his guilt would have been even worse. He agreed.

Hank's oldest friend was Anthony Quinn, whom he had known for many years. One night, it was arranged for my husband and me to have dinner in Manhattan with Hank and Quinn. I was thrilled, as Anthony Quinn was one of the actors I most admired. He had captivated me in "Zorba the Greek." At the appointed hour, the three of us arrived at the restaurant and sat down to have a drink while we waited for Quinn. An hour and several drinks later, he still had not made his entrance, so we decided to order dinner.

Halfway through the meal, which was excellent Mexican food, Anthony Quinn arrived with his date, a 19-year old bimbo named Bambi who was prancing like a filly at the starting gate. Quinn, on the other hand, practically crawled to our table, looking utterly exhausted. He downed several drinks but was too drained to eat. The young lady made it clear that she expected to go several more rounds in the sack with Quinn after his obligatory appearance at his friend's dinner party. While I listened to her preen and prattle, Quinn and Hank had a brief conversation in Spanish.

it turned out that the three of us were delegated to give Bambi a ride home, while Quinn slunk away for some restorative R&R. All the way there, she sat in the back seat glowing as she effused over what a "wonderful person" Anthony Quinn was. For years, my husband and I used "Wonderful Person" as code for great lay. Later, Hank told us that Quinn had muttered the phrase that bullfighters use when they want another bullfighter to take their bull.

I Am Special

I would like to be in the Special Olympics. I'm sure that I must have some kind of untapped athletic ability, and it would be very nice to win an Olympic medal. Preferably gold, but silver or bronze would be okay, too.

I am mechanically challenged, so I think that I qualify. A certain person who shall remain nameless says that I am at war with the physical world. He says it often, and this comment is normally accompanied by gratuitous head shaking.

My throwing arm is not powerful, but it is accurate. I can hurl a wadded-up Kleenex into a waste basket from across the room. Even backhand. The Globe Trotters would want me on their team if they knew I could do that. I would be their secret weapon, running through other players' legs, dribbling madly. They would never know I was there until it was too late, and I would score the winning touchdown. Home run, too.

Also, I am very special. Everyone says so. I don't think it means anything that they snicker when they say it.

I am a team player and will do almost anything for a cookie.

I have not won an Oscar or an Emmy this year, a Pulitzer or a Nobel. Everybody knows that. I haven't gotten a gold star next to my name for brushing my teeth or walking the dog. In fact, I don't even own a dog so it's not fair.

I really, really need a Gold Medal. I can put a shot, or shoot a pot, and my discus hardly ever slips. When I run across intersections, my ice cream never levitates out of the cone, and I once shot an arrow into the air. (It fell to earth, I know not where.)

I have almost drowned at Nice, Jones Beach, and Nantucket, but I didn't so I deserve a medal for swimming. I have an irrational fear of diving, so I think that's a skill we can work with, too.

I am easily entertained. I am cracking myself up right now.

Do they give medals for keeping people awake with raucous, giddy laughter? If they do, I'm your girl.

Afterthought: This post was inspired by watching and working with the amazing people who participate in the Special Olympics and accomplish extraordinary feats of skill and courage every day of their lives.

My political incorrectness is only intended to make fun of myself, and not of the special athletes whom I deeply admire.

Their spirit humbles me.

Missing in Action

I'm going to the City of Angels today, and will be back on Sunday.

I will not be visiting the L.A. County Jail, or smuggling a file in chocolate cake to Ms. Hilton.

I probably won't be online while I'm gone, but will catch up with your great blogs when I get back.

You will all be missed.

Moral Dilemma

Interesting developments next door. For the last week, Next Door Whore has been clattering around her apartment in her ubiquitous 7" heels, moving boxes and racks of clothing out. She even had a helper, her cousin who "might be staying there once in a while." I asked if she was moving. She said she wasn't, that she was house-sitting for a friend nearby until the end of the year and would then be traveling in Southeast Asia for several months.

"What kind of work do you do?" I asked.

"Oh, I quit my job a long time ago," she said. Nice. She said that she was moving her clothing to the other place so she wouldn't have to stop in here every time she needed something. It takes six days to move all her clothing? I calculated how long it would take me to move all my clothing. About an hour, counting the taping of boxes. And a couple of tea breaks. Maybe a short nap.

"Are you subletting?" I asked.

"Oh, no."

Yesterday, a crew of moving men came and removed all her furniture, then carried in a houseful of different furniture, directed by the cousin.

I said to the cousin, "So you're moving in?" She looked annoyed.

"No, just a little clothing," she said. We didn't talk further because we were blocking four moving men hauling an eight-foot couch up the stairs and into the apartment. Apparently, she wears couches, easy chairs, dressers, lamps, and a stupendous array of large wardrobe boxes.

I suspect they're trying to do an illegal sublet so the rent won't be raised. San Francisco has rent control. Landlords are allowed to raise the rent only a certain percentage, but for a new tenant, they can ask market price. A rental agent would also get a commission for renting the space. These apartments are going for a lot more than when Jackie moved in over two years ago. Probably the only thing that's true is that they are cousins. They both look like rodents. Flip says it's none of my business, and while he's technically correct, I think it is my business who lives next door to me. This is a small building with only nine apartments. It's hard to be anonymous in such a small crowd.

My ethical sense is offended, and I resent that they lied to me. I can think of ways to bust them.
(a.) When I pay my rent, remark to the rental agent that I wish I'd known the apartment was available because I have a friend who would have been interested. Does she think that anything else in the building will be vacant soon?
(b.) When Rodent #2 blasts her stereo as her cousin did at ungodly hours, complain that the new tenant in 102 is very noisy, and what do they suggest I do about it? Both of which should elicit a "HUH? New tenant?" from the management company.

I have no affection for the management company. The head person is shockingly nasty, and the building owner is a pig. They make repairs as cheaply as possible. They destroy gardens. They have been known to let themselves into occupied apartments without the requisite 24-hour notice for non-emergencies.

If Jackie had told me the truth, I would have been on her side. But she and her cousin, the new non-tenant, both lied to my face and expected me to believe that one was not moving out and the other in, despite the fact that their movers were here all day. With a huge truck blocking our driveway. Bumping large house furnishings up and down the stairs for hours. How stupid do they think I am? I know, I know. They don't owe me an explanation. But I don't owe them any loyalty. Besides, wouldn't that make me an accessory after the fact? I am not eager to incur bad karma. Tonight, I drove into the garage and noticed that the new non-tenant's non-car that wasn't parked in Jackie's space had its dome light on. I'm ashamed to say that I debated with myself as to whether to let her know. After all, she isn't really here, is she? I knocked on her door and told her. She didn't thank me. But I'm off the karmic hook for tonight.

Flip thinks that I should let the illegal sublet thing go. He is nicer than I am. I probably will, but something mean-spirited in me really doesn't want to. What would you do?

Update:

The new tenant also comes home every day at about 9:30 a.m. in stilettos, which precludes a night shift kind of job. More like shiftLESS. I don't believe they're cousins, but lamppost buddies. The common resemblance to rodents is probably just a happy coincidence.