Birthday Beach Bash
On my twenty-fourth birthday, I got carded when I was buying alcohol at the store, and the cashier guy was surprised that I was 24. When I asked him how old he originally though I was, he said 18. So not only did the guy remind me that I look like a little boy, but also that I was already 24, which made me feel old. On my birthday this year I was glad that I wasn’t reminded of how young I look, how old I actually am, and that I didn’t have to buy my own alcohol.
I haven’t been planning my activities lately, resorting to doing everything last-minute. It was 10AM on a Tuesday morning. I had the day off, which meant a day of opportunity ahead of me. I knew I wanted to drive somewhere away from the city, preferably by the beach. Then LazyBoy told me that the guys were planning to take me out to dinner. I told them I didn’t know if I would be around, but I’d call them later. I busted out the door with full intention of taking a day trip to Santa Barbara. I never made it that far.
UPDATED: Pictures from the Beach Tour, after the jump.
Instead, I drove north on PCH to Malibu. I picked a coastal access sign and made a left to find parking. My first stop was Broad Beach. The street I parked on was a row of nice houses, and literally every house had an army of Mexicans doing work outside. I walked through a narrow access path in between two big ass houses to get to the beach.
On the beach, all I saw were little white kids, teenage white kids, rich white moms. I think I was invading their space. I kicked off my shoes, laid out my beach towel and pulled out the book I have been reading for over two years, City of Quartz.
After getting sunburnt, I drove further north to Leo Carillo State Beach. I realized I had been there before, didn’t really want to get any more sunburnt, and went back down PCH. I stopped across the street from Broad’s Beach at Hows Market to pick up some food.
Hows Market is like Ralph’s when it OD's on richness. All their meat sits in different kinds of delicious looking marinades. I got a Boar’s Head barbeque chicken sandwich from the Deli and left quickly before someone lynched me.
At Zuma Beach, where they filmed Pamela Anderson's jugs juggling, I picked a spot on the sand to eat my sandwich. It was delicious. I must have been really hungry because a kid kept staring at me as I tore into my sandwich like a pig. I should have taken a picture of how fascinated he looked. His parents should take him to the goddamn zoo once in a while. On my way back to the car, I tried to spot a normal, non-SUV car in the parking lot but couldn’t. There was even a Hummer limo. Ahh, Malibu.
Then I drove to the Palisades to go on a hike. I parked at the top of Palisades drive at the entrance to Topanga Canyon State Park trail. After walking past the gated homes and up a smoothly paved path, I hit the trail. I hiked uphill for a while and checked out the scenery. Then I kind of slid down the steep path, through a narrow opening in between the branches, and saw a big rock. I realized that I had been on this hike before, because I distinctly remembered sitting on that big rock and squatting like I was taking a shit. I climbed to the top of the rock and was treated to a panoramic view from Malibu all the way to downtown LA. It was gorgeous. Too bad I ran out of film by then.
I sat on the rock for a while, enjoying my respite from the worries of everyday city life. One of the reasons why I like hiking is that it clears my brain. Viewing the city from the distance and feeling the perfect balance of summer sun and clean ocean breeze helps me to gain perspective. Problems become insignificant and life kind of starts to make sense. The epiphany never happens, but being on the mountain, either on a trail or on a big rock, always makes me come close to reaching that understanding.
After that, I was tired and drove home. I hung out with the boys at dinner and then we went to Gas Lite to try to get WrathOfDrunkenness drunk again. I wasn’t interested in having a repeat of my puking session last year, so my friends only had to buy me two drinks. A music producer of note was seriously impressed by Tiny’s singing skills. When we left, the producer followed us outside and we stood outside in a circle for a couple hours while he hustled us into believing Tiny could be a hip hop star. He talked to each of us to see what we did, dropped some old school hip-hop knowledge, and told us how we all needed to get our shit together. When the bar closed and some girls came out, the producer pulled away from our circle to hustle the girls.
Producer: You all want to get some food right now?
Ladies: Yeah, where at?
Producer: I know this tight French spot.
Ladies: Really?
Producer: Yeah, it’s called Le Jacque in Ze Box. Let’s go!
Before he left with the girls, he gave Tiny his card and told him to hit him up so they could set up a recording session. If it was hot, they’d go make some money. If not, it would be nice meeting him anyway. On the drive back, Tiny said he doesn't think he has the goods to be a singer, he just likes messing around when he sings. It was a smooth hustle anyway.
That was the end of my birthday non-extravaganza. Although there was no beach bash, there was plenty of chill and little hype, just the way I like it. But next year I’m gonna throw a huge party and puke on the bathroom floor of a really nice establishment.