Santa Monica Boulevarde

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More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Travel  |  House: Booksie Classic
Santa Monica
West Coast
USA U S A
United States of America

Submitted: January 16, 2014

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Submitted: January 16, 2014

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Santa Monica Yacht Harbour. Sport fishing, boating, cafes, says the sign above Colarado Avenue, as you cross the glorious palm tree-lined Ocean Avenue to enter the pier. Santa Monica is written on a background of gaudy pink, the sky at the horizon above the end of the road just yards before you is a spectacular flaming orange, and the amusement park with its orange-yellow lit Ferris wheel and rattly-clanky-shrieky big dipper pours forth laughter, shrieks and multicoloured light into the coming night. And if that doesn't rouse you from your late-afternoon post double-vodka-martini slumber and light a fire under your joy box, old chap, then you've probably rusted away to oblivion.

Could anything be more spectacular? The road ends at the pier -is there anything so delightful as driving on a wooden pier? So if you've got a floating car- a Volkswagen Schwimwagen, for instance, you can simply keep driving straight off the end of the pier, carve a tunnel across the sleepy sea, right up the centre of the red sunbeam laid delicately across the slumbering ocean, until you plunge into the sun itself, which is what I did. Delightful!

Otherwise, park your 1956 Mark VI Bentley Continental at the beach, and sidle across to the boardwalk. Obviously you've brought yourself at least three women (for oneself, a Laoatian, a Burmese, and a Vietnamese tonight), and they'll welcome refreshments at the Maria Sol Restaurant- tall glasses of blue stuff with umbrellas, an Americano for yourself (which is usually either an alcoholic drink made with Campari, sweet vermouth and club soda, or a Long Black coffee, but which can be anything really). Then enfold their delicate little fingers in your own leathery, masculine hands, and lead the way into the perfumed night!

That perfume is Mary Jane of course, she's been decriminalised, the little scamp, and everyone uses her now. In fact, it's legal to use, possess, and cultivate her for medicinal use, and so various touts along the way- the deranged gibbering woman with the blue hair, cats' eye sunglasses and hippy scarf, the shirtless tanned chap wearing his hat the wrong way, the muttering homeless chappie- is there anyone here not muttering or gibbering about something? -will try to sell you some. If it's more relaxing than three lovely ladies it must be extraordinary. Break out your snuff box to show them you're a gent from classier domains, and they'll shuffle away.

Buy some cotton candy for your ladies- you'll only need one bunch, obviously, being slender and refined they'll share it, only nibbling at the stick, the dirty scamps. It's a bit early for them to getting all sticky around the mouth, so another drink is in order. (They'll thirst for some pineapply-umbrella thing.)  Then into the amusement park.

On all sides you'll be assaulted by the flavours of the fast food carts, and a mooing herd of buffalo- oh, they're just tourists- will encircle you, great walls of waddling arses topped by floral shirts and big fat heads- twice as wide as high- into which they'll be shovelling foodstuffs. Briefly consider letting your ladies take potshots at them from your rimfire, but discard the thought when you ponder how those heads might look affixed to the panelled walls of your study. Not the most spectacular of sights, and not a good match for the ibex and the lion. Make jokes at their expense instead, and suggest what exceptional husbands they'd make for your ladies. Offer your services as a matchmaker, that their horrified reactions to such a proposal should throw you into glowing contrast, and smirk as they clutch you to themselves possessively. Ah, the trials of a lordly fellow!

Step gallantly aside to allow the eighty-five year old grandmother on roller skates to pass- pink spandex really oughta be illegal at all ages... (There's a certain age at which pink spandex looks unattractive...betwixt ages zero and ten billion). She'll twirl around to face you- your ladies will shriek, thinking it's a zombie. No, merely evidence that stretching the skin of your face beyond a few yards cannot make you appear eighteen again. Oh well, one must be grateful she's sans moustache, a rare condition in aged women. Fortunately she'll disappear amidst the lycra, replaced by a group of chaps wearing, presumably, mere postage stamps, with spread lats, several tons of baby oil on their chests, and half a ton of steroids inside. It's not that the pursuit of physical perfection is wrong- you're evidence of that- but one doesn't flaunt the body of Adonis, seeking the admiration of the plebs. One attires it in Savile Row, and greets the world with personality, verve, and style, not physical meatheadedness. Oh well, we can't all be gentlemen of breeding, can we? Exactly, old chap. Couldn't have put it better myself!

As the light fades to pink the sky's cloudless- perfect weather year round here. There's a glut of restaurants of every variety in the area- the profusion of lard arses attests to that. Wander past the stalls of shirts and trinkets. There's a vast farmers market Monday, Wednesday and Saturday for your veggies, and stunningly accomplished buskers abound in the shopping precincts. Which no gentleman of leisure would ever frequent, obviously, those are for lard-arsed mouth-breathers, people with no personality, talent, or use in this world that this fine aristocrat can determine. Oh well! We can't all be magnificent specimens, can we!

As the sun slips into the sea and sets it ablaze, stroll leisurely toward a deserted section of beach- they do exist... Light up a bonfire, drape the beach towels on the sand, and open all that wine you brought, give each of your ladies a cigar, and lie back beneath the diamond encrusted sky…What could be more enchanting?


© Copyright 2020 Max Flynn. All rights reserved.

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