October is the best month of the year for me, hands down. This October is set to be amazing and today was a great start. I went to Santa Monica by myself and spent a good seven hours in the area. It took two hours to get there by metro, but it’s always worth riding. On the gold line into Union, I sat next to a man. Across from this man, for a few stops, was another mediocre man. I had my headphones in, but when the latter began dramatically whispering to the former across the aisle, getting up and covering his mouth so I couldn’t see, I turned down my music.
The former guffawed a few times and said, showing off his Raiders hat, “I pay too much money to support these guys. It’s not about this or that issue with Trump. It’s about respect.”
The latter said, waving his hand, “We should get rid of all of them.”
I looked him in the eye after he said this and he had the expression of a kid getting busted by their parents for being up in the middle of the night. He got off and a guy carrying a skateboard got on. The remaining mediocre man tried to start up conversation. “You skateboard?” The guy pulled out his headphones with an annoyed look. He said he did, humored the man a few words, then went back to minding his business.
I sat there and wondered who the Sporty Spice version of mediocre men thought was getting all the money from merchandising. Sure, players get a cut, but they are the ones who make the brand and they are the ones who endanger their lives every time they play the game. And respect? The only people mediocre men know how to respect outside of themselves is rich men.
On the expo line to Santa Monica, I asked the woman sitting next to me how her book – Eat, Pray, Love – was. She said it was good and I said I never got around to reading it because I watched the movie and I’m not a big Julia Roberts fan. She said the book was much better and I agreed that books are always much better. I took out mine and she whispered to me, “I love that book. It’s his most accessible to be honest.” I smiled and said it was my first James Joyce. We read to ourselves and listened to people on the train.
There was a man who stood at the doorway and told people false transit information for kicks. There was a man who carried snakes in a box and said Trump didn’t want to help Puerto Rico because he’s a racist. There was a woman who said, “I don’t understand. We are all human.” There was a young woman writing in her notebook. There was a young man I saw both on the way to and from the beach. We looked at each other a few times at the end of the night, gauging our recognition and surprise.
My roomie convinced me it would be cold at the beach, but the weather was fine – courtesy of climate change. I got there around 1 p.m. and set up on the shore. I wanted to carry as little as possible, but I also wanted to be prepared. So, as usual, I overpacked. Unnecessary things I brought today included: water paint palette and paper; first aid kit; mace; camera; money; and gummy worms. I shot some things on the camera, so I may try to edit a little video. I fluctuated between pushing past waves to get to spots where I could bob and feel terrified by all the unknowns around me and laying in the sun, flipping between my stomach and back and reading and painting and listening to the conversation between the trio of high schoolers next to me.
After I dried out for the last time, I got dinner and post-dinner dessert; walked along the beachfront; recorded the sunset; listened to an assembly of street performers; took a lap around the pier at dusk; and went home. Nothing happened on the way back. It had been a long day for everyone. Another day of sun.
A STOR¥ BY ? 