On a nothing day

Oh man, the sun. It is just so blinding hot.

Yesterday was December 11th, a mere ten days from the Winter Solstice, the day where the northern hemisphere happens to be as far from the sun as it’s going to get, which mean it should be cold. Punk ass colleges, such as Carlton, where Beth and Alex happen to attend, up and call it quits and raise the white flag of surrender against the elements, dropping classes all the way from Thanksgiving through to the new year. While the rest of the civilized world goes home a few days for turkey day, and then heads back to college for finals, the dean of Carlton college stockpiles firewood and fuel and sends the students home because if they got snowed in, he’d resort to consuming the rotting flesh from students off the Dean’s list for sustenance through the hard winter months.

While the orbital tilt of the earth would suggest chilly temperatures, Los Angeles has that tendency to extend the middle finger to nature (after all, it is basically built on desert). Thus, while the rest of you froze, Freddie was lounging around in 84 degrees of heat. That much heat meant one thing – getting a group together, and going down to Santa Monica to laze around on the beach in the middle of December, the most unlikely of beach going months.

Towel and paperback in tow, a small group of Cinema Floor kids loaded into the Wongmobile for a quick, sunny jaunt down the I-10 West all the way to the ocean, where the fabled Santa Monica Pier and beach awaited. Upon arrival, Jason (who had bought a copy of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas and played it compulsively before hiding it from himself lest he fail right out of USC), remarked “Hey! I’ve been here in GTA!” Then, quietly to himself, he added, “This is terrible – I see the pier, and immediately I think ‘Under the pier is a good place to take a hooker.’”

A masterpiece in progress. Ed took this one.

Unfortunately for Jason, there were no hookers present this particular day, so we joined up with the others up on the pier. Jonesy, a girl from the Cinema Floor, was seated on a stool smiling broadly and getting her caricature drawn. The man drawing it was very good, despite wearing a shirt with a comic book character on it (and what that usually implies about the artistic capabilities of the wearer), and the final image was provocative enough that Jason was tempted to take it down under the pier alone (if you know what I mean (I THINK YOU DO)). On top of getting a sexy picture of yourself proudly declaring that you “strip for Tommy” (Trojan, as opposed to actor Tommy Lee Jones or rockin’ 80s band Tommy Tutone, although of course, if you’re willing to strip for the inanimate statue of your school mascot, it’s implied you probably be willing to strip for any other Tommy if they ask just politely enough), Jonesy got her picture for free. The artist beckoned her over, and the girls and him began talking of their wildly implausible sexcapades, which ranged from deliberate wardrobe malfunction for the USC Jumbotron, to random osculation with animals killed by automobiles (the best kind of animal for such activity, because they don’t resist!). Such wild lives USC girls lead, or at least, that’s what the artist thought.

He happened to be the only caricature artist I saw on the job that day. The rest of the pier was lined like notebook paper with tired looking artists who drew each letter of your name in some flamboyant, artistic fashion, be it dragons who spend their time in the shapes of letters, or boats built by boat makers who love vowels. There was one peddling their art form every fifteen yards or so. With that much competition for what’s sure to be a conversation starter at the dinner table (conversations that start with “I hope you didn’t pay too much for that” or “Why not just write ‘I am a huge tourist’ instead?”), it’s no wonder they all looked like they were contemplating jumping head first off the pier railing behind them, or changing their art style to depict an orgy of naked couples in the midst of coital bliss that happens to spell your name.

The floral print umbrella ain’t helping business any, either.

Imagine having your boss over for dinner, and having your wife Stacy’s name spelled out by people sticking it in every hole from every angle imaginable boldly emblazoned behind the dinner table. You’d definitely get the “raise” you’re looking for (if you know what I mean (AND I THINK YOU DO!)). Or the look of young Ferdinand’s face as he pulls open his stocking Christmas morning to find that he’s been a terrifically good boy this year, and his name has more than enough material for his prepubescent mind to be awkwardly confused and curious about all the way through Senior Prom, whereupon he takes his date into his room, and awkwardly asks her if they could maybe try doing the letter “F”. Man, screw your dragons and boats – I want people spelling my name and doing it in the butt.

Jason and I headed into the kickin’ video arcade for some hot light gun action. I briefly considered playing a round of Dance Dance Revolution to strut my stuff for the Socal crowd, but then this short chubby white kid popped in a buck in quarters and proceeded to dance the living shit out of the machine. He jiggled around, pounded the ground, and got some mad props from the tourists, while I cowered at his majesty. Sometimes, you need to step up to the plate to show your moves. Other times, you should let someone else embarrass themselves, and this was definitely one of those times.

Clearing away form the scene as quickly as possible, we decided to play The House of the Dead 3, which is a game where you shoot so many zombies that you start thinking people walking around with any sort of limp or swagger are really after your brains too. Also, you get shotguns, and you pump to reload. While we were busy mauling the undead, an amateur photographer walked around and was practicing by taking pictures of two Asian kids as they point neon green shotguns at a screen. Nobody takes my picture if I can help it, so I was sure to ham it up just for him (constipated looks on my face, holding the gun absurdly, jive talking and shouting obscenities at the screen, grabbing my crotch when I successfully completed a kill, placing the long shotgun subliminally in front of my pelvis, &c. &c). He left quickly, hopefully with Pulitzer Prize winning material. I was dead pretty quick (with all the antics and whatnot), so I pulled out my camera and got this picture of Jason:

As you can see, Jason is extraordinarily serious when it comes to the grim task of sending the undead back to their graves. This is a man who takes his shooting games seriously.

After a sufficient amount of zombies had been taken care of, the group headed down to the beach to soak up the remaining hours of daylight. The surf was pounded and mocked, a sand castle (and accompanying sand dragon) was built, and much time was well wasted by the waterside watching the sun inch down along the sky, and the carnival lights of the pier to glow in the fading twilight. As the sun set, a few of the folks from the east coast remarked that this was the first time they’d ever seen the sun set on the water. It flattened out as it disappeared, and it looked like a little patch of water was on fire before narrowing out and extinguishing. “This,” I thought to myself, “is why I want to Southern California.”

Lens flare!

Building the sand castle. Ed took this one, too.

In case you’re wondering, this is Ed doing a wicked handstand.

Also, I’m here for the ripe market for lewd pictures that spell your name out.

-f.w.