Just Home…

I was house-sitting near Windward Circle last week. One night I went out to get a bite to eat. Before picking up some organic pink lentil soup and vegan coconut mousse at Seed, I took a stroll along the beach to watch the sunset then came back via the Boardwalk. There was a rock band made up of very thin and hip young men – all in very tight jeans – who were playing at the end of Westminster. They had a horn player, in particular, that caught my ear. I liked the song that was finishing. The sun was gone, only crimson dusk and baby blue left in the waning day sky. A gathered crowd was in a good mood, grateful that warm had returned to Southern California.

The singer – shirtless, standing next to a blonde guitar player – announced they were going to play one more song. An old black guy in a wheel chair and heavy green coat, sitting near me, made a sarcastic aside, “Oh now it’s the last song. The last one was supposed to be the last one…and before that, that was the last one.” He didn’t seem as if he wanted them to stop. I think he was annoyed that they were indecisive about when they were through.

Before they launched their final number, the singer – his hair cut so that it kept falling in his eyes – told us, in a European accent that might’ve been German, to look to our left, then to our right. “These are your new neighbors,” he informed us with the deep sincerity that only young boys, sure of who they have decided they are, can have. Regardless, of whether or not that friendly neighbor talk was real or just part of the show, I smiled. They were so young. Giddiness is fleeting, but sneaks up on you from time to time.

The Pink Floyd cover that came out next was barely tolerable, unfortunately, unlike the previous two songs I had heard. I lasted a few more minutes then headed back to the apartment.

The next day, I was walking dogs in Venice, near San Juan and Westminster, when a woman, with whom I was familiar from the neighborhood, called to me. She was holding two boxers by the collars. One of those boxers was red, but old with a lot of fur that had gone gray. The other, a female – was even older, white with sores on her belly.

The woman, in her 40s, had a walking cast on her left leg. She was of the Old Venice sort, a plucky, aging Granola gal kind of like me, I suppose.  ”Do you know whose dogs these are?” She explained that the boxers were out wandering.

“No, I have never seen them.”

“Can you help me? I don’t want them to end up in a pound.” They did not have tags and she wanted to put them in her car, so she could drive around the neighborhood. Though I knew old dogs like those would be put down in about five hours at a pound, I was a little nervous to assist, because the old female lab I was walking, did not always take to other dogs. But, she was fine. So, I held the grandlady boxer by the collar, while the woman put the other one in her car.

“Well,” I said, “you know they haven’t come from very far. An old gal like this can’t move that fast.”

“Oh, I know. They belong to someone close.” She took the other boxer from me, balancing herself on her good foot.

“I will look for open gates while I am walking dogs. If I see anything, I will let you know.” Pointing to the red boxer who had on a navy blue doggie jacket, “That one has a coat, so they haven’t been out very long.”

A half hour later, I hadn’t seen any houses, that looked as if they might have been security breached by a couple of curious, ancient canines. I told the woman when she stopped and asked. The dogs were still in the back of her car. She hadn’t had any luck in locating the owner either. “I’m going to take them to the vet and see if they have microchips,” was her next plan.

I found out later from a third party, who lived on that same street, that the dogs had been implanted with chips and they were returned to a grateful owner. I thought that a stranger in a walking cast had certainly gone to some trouble for a couple of really old animals that didn’t belong to her. That’s Venice. That’s any place where there is love. That’s home.

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Gone House Building…

Two days before Christmas, I took a stroll at sunset through a beautiful old cemetery, one of my favorite places. Built on the side of  hill on the very edge of Paris, Illinois, it is where I clear my head when I am home visiting. While I was walking, I came around the bend to see six white tail deer, as they were frightened by a car pulling through behind me. It is not uncommon to see deer in that graveyard this time of year. It is hunting season and they often seek sanctuary from rifle bullets and arrows where the town lays its dead to rest…

Looking through old photos while at my parents’, I remembered how we always had great Christmases, how much I missed my Grandpa Joe, how crazy and wonderful my Grandma Alice was.

During my visit, I became aware of more patterns that I had from my upbringing that were not necessarily good. My folks were a bit young and volatile when we started out. I remembered how my Grandma Toots could say any awful thing in the moment – true or not – to try and get what she wanted. Though I have never lived near her level of mean, I confronted my own cruelty with words when my anger runs too hot. I remind myself to be humble in my rage and not self-righteous, and to try to get a handle on my expectations.

When I was in my mid 20s, I had these numbers in my mind as to how old my parents would live. So, I came up with, what were astronomical figures at the time – 84 for my father and 92 for my mom. I would be in my early 60s when my father died and in my mid 70s with mother. At the time, it was so far away…

In twenty years, my father will be 84. God help me, I hope he lives at least that long, but twenty years is nothing. It will be gone in a flash. It kills me to think, even for a second, of a planet without my dad on it. But, that day will come. And as far as my mother’s death – she has been a constant source of light in my life and I couldn’t imagine I’d even want to be here without her.

Unless we are touched by it prematurely, we think for so long, that death is something that happens to other people. Or, something so far away, it might as well be forever. Some day, I will be dead. It’s not one of those things where you can beat the odds. It is inevitable. Everybody dies. If you are lucky, you live long and full.

Back in LA, I am busy – producing, maybe picking up a directing project, writing, still trying to learn the fucking guitar…finding a routine that will give me some structure and raise my productivity. And, I must get out and meet people. Been doing it. I want to do it. I am happy again. I am feeling adventurous, though a little tired from work. Also, I am coming to terms with all that I have missed due to my own bad choices.

I was out the other night, locally, and I caught some, not uncommon, Venice Beach dynamics among a crowd of older, long time residents – competition, little control and fragile self esteem stuff… I thought, you know, it is not my job to judge this. It is my job to sit here and love. Then, it is funny how your vision expands. I felt more heart and less ego. I saw myself in this woman who was much older than me:  Needing a certain kind of attention even when giving support; insecurity; wanting others to see the light inside and draw it out, instead of simply believing in it and offering…I let a lot of that go back in my mid 30s, but not in every aspect of my life…

When I used to be an actor, because of constantly auditioning, you get in a mentality of always trying to make the most of short windows of opportunity. There is a lot of work and sweat that leads to three minutes in front of some people who, by slim odds, might give you a job. Then it is over and you rarely hear a thing. And you get into this kind of  ”PICK ME” mentality, instead of driving choices for yourself. Doing theatre, it can be the same thing – short intense build up to a show that lasts two months or so. Stapled, safety pinned and glue gunned together, it only has to look good enough for stage, and if you’re lucky, manages to be entertaining.

These patterns are not how you build a life. Because of my impatience and need to prove I am smart, I have burned more than one bridge that may have led to a career opportunity. In the past several years, I find I rush things emotionally with men. I think that’s why I have had a lot of interactions with men who push things sexually – aging players or guys who need sex as some kind of validation. You get these extremes. They want to steam roll over me, so I blow them up. I have to be done with that. Too fucking old. I see now, how it’s usually not about one night or a magic moment like in the movies. It happens with work, friendship and mutual investment.

I can’t start all the way over. There’s no need really. I have picked a decent plot of land on which to build. The foundation is level and well poured. I’ve got good materials. It’s a little overwhelming at my age, but I have got to find the patience, focus and energy to construct a solid, comfortable house that will last into the long term future. Maybe it will take more time than I would like, but what I cannot afford is for my life to fall apart again, because it’s all shortcuts and slapped together.

Brick by brick as they say…I’ve got my truth. Now, I want the work.

Carried Away…

My imagination got carried away over this whole Silicon Beach thing. I have drifted in and out of other people’s dreams (or my obsessions with being a part of other people’s dreams), for quite some time. Not yet confident as a writer, I was unable to get a real bead on who I was. My own dreams have alluded me – not just in their pursuit, but in the actual formulation. I don’t think I planted any of my own seeds in Jamie’s Secret Venetian Silicon Garden.

I know Venice intimately, but from a distance, like a diligent and highly discreet stalker. (Though I have learned the hard way, not to make stalker jokes.) There was a time, back when I was unemployed and had only been a Venetian for a short while, that I was very happy in a state of blissful ignorance. I loved when the Canals were nothing but a big gorgeous house park, instead of a monument to gentrification. I loved when the Boardwalk was a carnival that held little interest, instead of a place that I consciously avoided.

My life in Venice Beach has been about birds, really.

Cranes, hawks, egrets, mockingbirds (an evil attack one lives on Amoroso), wild parrots (a whole freaking flock nesting in our palm tree), ducks (cheeky little bastards in the spring), swallows, geese, seagulls, pigeons, doves, crows, bluebirds, kestrels, pelicans (catching them in flight in the Canals with that wing span, still blows me away), hummingbirds…

My life is early morning fiction writing after yoga followed up with toast and strong, sweet coffee. My life is about insomniac nights, candles burning, Robert Johnson warbling Stones In My Passway, barely audible through my computer speakers, but fused with a haunting serenity nonetheless. My life is a little too lonely. That is mostly my fault. Sometimes I like it too much that way.

My life is about dogs. I lost one a few weeks ago. A beautiful lady black lab who was nine years old. She had a tumor on her heart and went so fast. When I go to the house to walk her surviving buddy, Ranger, I cry every single time. I’m crying now as I type this because I still cannot accept that I am never going to see her again. She was a good dog. I named my guitar after her. I still can’t play for shit, but the new Ms. Burton has an acknowledged spirit. That counts for something. As it turns out, that counts for everything.

My life is about bees and flowers. My life is about riding my bike to the ocean and watching the sun go down. My life is about singing when all the doors and windows are closed. My life is about walking to the Albertsons and saying hello to three or four folks along the way. Sometimes homeless guys manage to sleep in the brush surrounding the “Costco Compound.” Sometimes they even manage to set up a little camp. They never last long. Not only is it private property, it is technically Culver City where they don’t put up with that shit.

My life is about long phone conversations with friends, meeting for a drink, seeing a play or heading to a museum. My life is about my neighbors and a yard sale, a bag of mellow leaf and a fridge of Tecate that brings us all closer together. My life is about my family. My father so badly wants me to visit home.

I go to Starbucks for morning coffee when I don’t brew it myself. I would have preferred a local Mom and Pop for my regular joint, but none are within walking distance. Also, when a gal is up at 4am, there is something mighty nice about a place that unlocks its doors at 5:30am on the dot. Plus, the staff all knows me. They ask about my life. They were really excited about my cover story in the Beachhead.

I haven’t found much joy in many places, though the music and poetry are usually fabulous. People are not quite as alive as I had expected. There is a lot of sadness of which is spoken in the work, but not to each other.

Poetry nights at Beyond Baroque, a great band at the Talking Stick, something rare, but magical along the Boardwalk, walking around seeing all different kinds of folks…amazing stuff…But then there’s the old surfers and hippies who are always wanting a hug, which lasts way too long and/or involves a penis press and/or an ass grab. They bandy the phrase “Free Love” around like it is 1969 and that’s what they still mean.

In Venice Beach, it ain’t often about Free Love. Not anymore. It’s Free Fuck. Getting in, getting out and getting off – that’s howdy do Hollywood style. But, what do I care?!? It’s a free country. We all have to live in a body. Most of the time, people just want a fantasy.

What I do care about; however, is the lie that covers it all up, the pretty graffiti we slap all over that hard, exposed, entitled cock and say it’s art and, therefore, love. Those lies are something we don’t talk about in Venice Beach. Just like the rest of America, we don’t really call things what they are. We are no less hypocrites here than folks are anywhere else, we just have a good soundtrack.

There are a lot of things in Venice I would like to see change, but who the hell am I? I was proud to stand up for Free Venice in the Beachhead after that loaded Town Hall. Free Venice has a voice that needs to be heard and it was unfairly ambushed. But, I am certainly not that voice. I have not been here long enough and am not embedded in its history. I am in love, but not attached.

I am a bird watcher. I pray and meditate and lose myself in God on my best days. I lose my temper and yell at sanitation workers, who are blocking the one-way street with their truck on my bad days…

I am a happy woman who could be much braver in sharing her happiness, face to face, instead from behind a word processor. I could do much better living my life and I plan to do just that.

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Silicon Beach: Resurrection of the Artist as Hero

This one is a little weird to me after some time has past. I actually have to convince myself that I wrote it. Not all of it makes sense. I was really obsessed with Silicon Beach and then I wasn’t…

Silicon Beach has arrived in Venice. That is a fact. We cannot do the usual sticking our heads in the sand and flipping it the bird and make it go away. No. There is not enough graffiti in the world to cover it up. Silicon Beach is here to stay and it will continue to grow.

But, I am not afraid. Not yet, anyway. Here is why.

The Venice Creative Community could drive the winds on homelessness, diversity and other important social issues, which are coming to a head. This gives me tremendous comfort. Artists are extremely powerful. Now more then ever, they need to know it. They need to be organized and they need to hold the tech community accountable to its promise to merge with LOCAL talent. They need to feel as if they are vital in what is a life and death struggle.

There is a reason why all the crazy elements of Venice Beach result in such amazing creativity. Defining that reason, well good luck. All I can say is that our fucked up magic works, most of the time. The homeless are part of the drama, part of the struggle, part of the extremes from which artists draw. Not to mention, a lot of young artists, poets and musicians come here and do time on the street.

Once we decide we want the homeless out, who is next? We chip away at our own souls and then we can’t create. The art dries up, the music stops and the whole reason tech came here in the first place is a bust. We all lose, but boy doesn’t the Old ‘Hood look awful shiny for a little while.

And, of course, even if those who want to keep Free Venice get our way, we still have HUGE homeless problems to solve. We have to at least try to help others understand, with patience and grace, for it is we who are the host. We need our hearts and there is not a lot of reason. We just need them.

We live in a country where we have lost so much culture and beauty. We have lost our ability to come together in love, though we can unite in anger and outrage. It is like we all are so worried about when we’re each going to get our own fifteen minutes, we can’t fully celebrate someone else in the height of his or her glory.

I see it, even in Venice, when there is too much competition between so many artists clamoring for attention. I go to an opening where a brilliant musician shyly provides ambience, apologizing for being in a room, when he or she should be surrounded by attuned open hearts. I see some festivals with lower attendance and less making merry than I would expect from wild Bohemians…

Tech possesses enough of a soul to know we have something they need. They just don’t quite know what it is. Or, if they know what it is, they don’t get why we have it and they don’t. I think some of them believe they can hover nearby and pick it up osmosis style. Or, absorb it from our bones as they suffocate Free Venice and make what remains into what they think they want. Some of them want to be us and let go into the freedom we know.

That’s why we have to own who we are, in a way that brings us together, in a way that flares the fire in our bellies into a collective pyre. And yes, that includes the tech folks. It is NOT about losing our individualism. It is about building a solid infrastructure inside which all our individualism is safe for generations to come.

Whether or not anyone wants to hear this, in these parts, Free Venice is the establishment. It has shifted from the counter culture to the local mainstream, simply as a result of time. Free Venice has remained true to its core values and endured. This is one reason why, energetically, Google can be an ally: The shared understanding of what it means to endure and, more importantly, to continue to endure.

The old paradigms don’t work the same. Like Terrorism is an elusive enemy, identifying “the Man” in these modern times is often tricky. While we’re all distracted by the friendly Google giant, who is not really interested in eating our babies, some of these lone wolves (who don’t get us) are munching on our goats in the middle of the night. That is not to say that a friendly giant can’t still be clumsy…

Under the old rules, it seemed more natural to worry about the establishment and embrace the rogue. That now has to be done on a case by case basis. Due diligence is a necessary bitch. Thank God, we have Occupy. We will need help communicating.

The thing about Google – they have an international reputation to maintain. They don’t want to be seen as the company that came to Venice Beach and destroyed diversity, creativity and art. They want to support those things in our community that both work and give them a shiny image. There’s actually quite a bit on which to draw. We need to think, carefully, as a community how to leverage such power. How do we use this new kid on the block (who wants to make nice with the neighbors), to our greatest advantage?

Well, Google offered a diversity pamphlet at the Town Hall entitled The Black Community at Google. Oh, gee, by chance we have a bit of a struggling Black Community in Venice. Why don’t we get some stronger outreach? See if we can get some folks qualified for entry level tech jobs and the anticipated supporting industries. See if we can identify potential local entrepreneurs. Maybe our young startups can help with a little mentoring. Raise the income, knowledge base and resources for people already in the neighborhood and we curb the loss of diversity. We anticipate and use our creativity to prepare.

For that, we need leadership within the community. Calls to action are so important. Answering those calls that speak to your soul are even more important. We need focus. We need archetypes. We need vision. We need good followers. We need inspiration. We need music. We need hope. And, as anything that has lasted and will continue to last, we need change.

We need to figure out how to celebrate all that has endured about Free Venice in the today. We need to be honest about who we are, even if some of what we are isn’t terribly pretty. We need to own our story. Whether we have been good or bad, we sure in the hell have been interesting. We need a healthy sense of humor about ourselves and others. We need to let go of those things that no longer work, even if they were important to us in the past. And on some days, after we have worked really hard, we need to let EVERYTHING go.

Like it or not, we have to decide now if the Free Venice Culture is playing itself out, in the final stages of one hell of a run; or, is there an essence, a heart beat, a philosophy, blood, guts, eyes, a voice that will endure because arthritic hands have been replaced by fresh ones, tired feet just got some shiny new shoes, and a very old soul suddenly found itself inside a young body? To speak in Modern Tech: How do we define our brand so that it is embraceable, impenetrable, open to growth and, because we all have to eat, marketable?

For our creative community, that is the task at hand. As tech rains down, you must build the ark that can hold us all. Artists are the heroes lying in wait. We can set an example for the entire world. We can start the future with love.

And if the ship fucking sinks, we go down in one glorious party…To live who we are without fear, that sounds like win-win to me…

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Freudian Fisticuffs

I nearly got into fisticuffs with a small, nerdy, Asian American gal at the Hotel Erwin last week. I say fisticuffs, because that is a ridiculous word and it is ridiculous that a long bar line would result in such shenanigans. But that is what happened.

I was at the High Rootop Lounge at the hotel for my friend’s final of three birthday celebrations. And no, Bruce is not one of these needlessly extravagant people. He just has a lot of friends all over LA and, very nicely, made himself available in three different locations throughout the week.

I don’t know what was up my ass, but I was angry from the moment I parked my car near Windward Circle. I was angry when the main elevator didn’t work and I had to take the service elevator. I was angry, when there were no signs getting off the elevator directing me to the Lounge. I was angry all the way to the rooftop, where I soon discovered there was about a 20 minute wait to get a drink at the bar.

Along with a nice professor couple, I’d been waiting in line forever for a fucking cocktail, when this young woman, of whom I have already mentioned, had a lot of questions about the drinks listed on the menu. Then, she decided she wanted to sample a couple before ordering. So, I tossed off some sarcastic remark. It was meant to entertain the academic friends of my birthday buddy, but it was a bit loud.

In her messed up pony tail, striped rugby shirt, sneakers and large round glasses, the young woman turned around and shot me a nasty look. I gave her a nastier one back. She returned to making her order. After finally getting her cocktail, she quickly skirted around me and hissed, “Classy” under her breath as she went past. I turned and, with my arms spread in an ‘oh you want a piece of me’ stance, confronted her: “That’s real brave, saying that to my back. Oh, real brave.”

For a second, I didn’t think she was going to back down. I thought she was going to pass her drink to a young male companion and come at me. But, there was some fear in her eyes at what the crazy, skinny, old, red-headed, white lady might do, so she backed off. Wise choice. Very wise choice. You don’t want to get into fisticuffs with a chick who can drop a 110 dog on his head in three seconds and whose Old Man taught her how to throw a proper punch.

When I told my story to Bruce last night at the Roozt Launch Party (appropriately flabbergasted and penitent over my behavior) he responded, “Oh honey, we need to get you laid.”

Exactly…
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Weeding the Garden of Dark and Light

Last week, I took my first morning visit on Ocean Front Walk, since the LAPD has begun enforcing the new curfew, which bans folks off Beach and Boardwalk from midnight to 5am…The giant fluffball on my left, we strolled through a different world…Sans camps of transients between shops and shore, the Pacific seemed more present. And, like everything that is Venice, I found myself with dichotomized feelings.

On the one hand, how sad, all those people – just gone. Where did they go? What happened to the nebulous communities? Could our citizen wanderers still gather elsewhere? Or, were they all on their own? What about their animals?

A slight young man in a black wool coat approached, and asked if he could pet the dog. Of course, I allowed it. He murmured about being there to buy something, but I didn’t quite understand him. I assumed he was looking for drugs or other black market goods, available on the West Edge of Venice Beach. A bit bewildered, the young man – thin, raven-haired and kind of handsome – mumbled, “I couldn’t find anyone.”

“Oh honey,” realizing he must have been absent, as had I, “They enforce the curfew now. They run people off at night.”

“I been in jail. I didn’t know where everyone was.”

“From midnight to 5am, they have to find somewhere else to go.”

That was a little tough. A homeless guy finishes his jail time. He has been out of touch. He probably hadn’t had any visitors. He goes to his community – which for him, was this broken beach umbrella and blanket village – where he expects to find at least a few of the people he called friends – especially at six in the morning, when everyone should be planted in their spot, fast asleep…

Wishing the soft spoken, ex-con well, I moved from Sunset to Windward, basking in a widespread tranquility, which I had never previously experienced at that location. Granted, I was walking this dog much earlier than usual, but I’d been in the area at sunrise before. There was ALWAYS something going on – a strange, perpetual liveliness, not terribly alive.

Post curfew regulations, the peace rolling in from the ocean was astonishing…the solemn quiet, the waves whispering…I never thought the Boardwalk could feel that way, even so very early in the day.

Those poor homeless people, when they are sleeping, many of them still have a lot of troubled energy. That energy lay between the property tax and rent paying residents and the Lullaby of Mother Earth every single night. With the frenetic daytime activity that is inevitable, because the Ocean Front Walk economy caters to tourism, it would be nice to have a more pure serenity in those wee hours.

One could argue, I suppose, if many of the homeless are, in fact, troubled, they need that serenity washing through them more than anyone – even if it can’t bring their minds (often weak from hunger and too many chemicals) all the way to calm.

I think that it is not my battle or my choice. I do not know how to feel. People should be warm and safe and peaceful, as they sleep at night.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise except as permitted under Sections 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee.

Of Homeless and Hustlers

Meandering around the Venice Art Crawl on their one year anniversary last August, I didn’t feel particularly keen to look at art. It was a little too much of a happening that night for my mood – too many hipsters packed into Erwin and the Old Gas Station. So, I wandered back roads and walk streets in the area for a bit.

Appearing around a dark corner a tall, homeless man with a backpack and quite a pungent odor, offered trail mix from a paper sack out of which he was munching. “Hi,” was all he said as he tilted the bag in my direction and smiled. Part of me, didn’t want to take it for health reasons, but I ultimately could not refuse. So many marginal folks living along the Boardwalk rely on the kindness of strangers. It seemed selfish to break the circle.

Several weeks before, while walking one of my client’s dogs on Ocean Front Walk, a young transient couple stopped me. The too skinny, white kids were remarkably clean cut, considering. The girl, a pretty blonde, begged, “I need some money to get an abortion. Can you help me out?” Wow. I had panhandlers request money for many reasons, but this was a first. When walking dogs, I carry keys, my cell and poop bags, so I had nothing to give.

Once I explained, she clung to the fluffy white pooch for quite awhile, enveloping him in a full embrace, as if she were never letting go. Thankfully, he is a good dog – gentle and patient. He stood very still and stared at me with his golden tan eyes. I smiled and patted his head to reassure. The boyfriend, a seemingly compassionate young man in way over his head, finally coaxed the frightened and confused girl off the dog, “The lady has to go. I can see she is a good person. If she had anything, she would give it to you.”

Later in the year, me and the same fluff ball were on the Boardwalk again for our morning walk. This guy, with a guitar slung over his shoulder, came up to us.  Open and jovial, I was leery of him nonetheless. In a calf-length black coat, his long dark hair was matted and oily. A thick skin with large pores reflected a hard life of substance abuse. He reeked of alcohol.

Hurried searches of the pockets inside his coat culminated in the presentation of a plastic hairbrush, “He is so pretty, you gotta let me brush him, Mommy.” What could I do? He started grooming before I could answer.

At first, the dog didn’t seem to like it. The brushing was a bit awkward, catching and pulling matted clumps of fur. I got a little nervous, but he finally settled into the spontaneous pampering that became smoother with each stroke. And, I will say that my new Boardwalk friend did a pretty thorough job.

“That will be $2.50,” he informed me, grinning while he pulled white fur out of what was presumably his personal hairbrush.

Not keen to pay him for something I hadn’t wanted him to do in the first place, I could honestly say I had no money.  ”I’ll catch you next time, Mommy,” he said, then pushed a hug on me. I accepted good-naturedly because, in Venice, these things happen.

Encounters with Ocean Front Homeless are not all amiable. I can’t forget the zoned out guy staring at the fluff ball as we went by, sinisterly declaring he wanted “to fuck that dog!” Or, the angry transient going past on an old bike, who took a dislike to me for no apparent reason. After I wouldn’t accept his berating quietly, he shouted at my back as I walked away, “You are too confident, cunt! Too fucking confident!” I wish I could say that I handled all that well, but the name calling may have been provoked by my middle finger.

Toward the end of summer, late on a Sunday morning, I put on a sundress and went for a morning stroll along the shore. On this day, an old beach rat called out as I passed by between him and the ocean.  ”At times like these, I wish I was on one of those nude beaches in Europe.”

When I caught his eye, he laughed and told me that I was beautiful and it was just wishful thinking. His young beach rat companion joined our conversation. We chatted about how they had been run off the beach the night before and how there seemed to be a bit of a crackdown as of late. “The cops broke up the drum circle,” the old man lamented, “They’ve been doing that circle forever. I can’t believe that shit!”

Saying our goodbyes, the older man touched my feet in a strange and reverent way almost sending me tripping down to the shore along the steep bank. We all hugged (they smelled of sand and saltwater) and shared a moment that was truly Venice Beach.

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