There's nothing like a heatwave to bring out the very best in South Bay sightlines.
I like to see a little evil.
I'm not a cold-weather fan; I grew up in it, and I don't like it. I like it hot.
Today was hot. The next few days are supposed to be hotter. Beach-hot, not desert hot, which means somewhere in the mid-80's, a sky of robin's egg blue, and just a feathery kiss from a sly, whispering breeze.
Perfect.
I walk for two hours every day. The Strand stretches a total of 26 miles, from here to Santa Monica. I've beaten a foot-path from here to the Manhattan Beach/Hermosa Beach border and back. Barefoot and happy, like a shoreline hillbilly.
Today on my way back to Redondo, I stopped at the Poop Deck, a legendary beach bar that is part of a block of Nirvana currently for sale, and someday too soon to disappear, just another victim of Southern California's arrogant disregard for its own vanishing history.
But that's a story for another day.
I strolled in and ordered a Corona. I was the only customer; it was early afternoon, my morning sales call went well, and I thought a beer on the patio was the best idea I'd had all day.
On the way in, I saw two women--one with a camera, one just too-cute--and I tend to remember those things.
About a minute into my patio stay, I saw them again, inside the Poop Deck now, ordering shots of tequila.
The Poop Deck is a beer bar; no hard liquor. So I heard them settling for a couple of beers.
My eyesight leaves something to be desired, but I noticed some "activity" near the pool table. I squinted and saw the girl with the camera. Then I saw the other girl.
She was crawling on the pool table, then she pulled her top down. The camera girl--I soon realized it was a video camera--was barking instructions, and the too-cute one was obeying.
Just another Thursday afternoon at the beach.
Now they decided to come out to the patio. I was sitting there by myself. The bartender was the only other person there, but I don't think he realized what was happening here.
(There's something happening here, and what it is, ain't exactly clear...)
The camera girl said to me, "You seem really mellow. Is everybody around here like you?" She was from Austin; the other from San Diego.
"No. I'm an original. The rest are prints."
They liked that one.
"Is it O.K. if she gets naked, and we film?"
"Absolutely."
I'm not a man of few words. Usually.
I don't work there. I have no authority to do anything at the Poop Deck other than order myself a beer.
So I turned to my moral authority:
"Do anything you want."
Sometimes you've just gotta make the call.
A few minutes passed by, and the bartender came back and saw what was happening; he looked at me, I looked at him, we both shrugged and watched a surreal voyeuristic video-shoot.
He got up and closed the giant doors that allow a clear view out onto the Strand.
"Standards", ya know.
About thirty minutes later--through jumping-jacks and yoga poses and Larry Flynt-like nudity--they were ready to move on. They asked me if I knew of any other "mellow" places.
Of course I did, and I sent them to an old haunt a few blocks away.
There's a back patio, I told them, and the barmaids there are very accommodating.
Most of the girls that work there are "Hollywood girls", and nudity won't be an issue, I said.
(I used to go there a lot.)
Upon leaving, the camera girl asked if she could bring back the two models she had lined up for Friday.
By this time a second bartender had arrived, and everybody nodded like back-window bobbleheads.
I love the Poop Deck, but I don't go there very often anymore. However, I've never had a policy against going to a great bar two days in a row, and I'm not about to start one now.
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