the winds are up

Again. Tumblin’ tumbleweed time. Except in this case it’s blown the detriment of civilization. Plastic bags. The black silt of long-dropped smog air. Fast food drink cups. Place em on your doorknob hand-outs. Weird stuff. A lazy rolling french fry. Roiling clouds of swirling dirt. Diving palm fronds. Siroccos. Kalaharis. Ghobis. Santa Anas. Off shore eddies. Flyin in your face, whippin your hair. Makin’ ya squint and hunch into the howling beast. The dry rawness of its movement taking control. Half buried in sand. Swinging stoplights, ala Lynch. Normalcy run amok. Heaved trees, uprooted naturally, yet askew in their precarious preponderances. Downed power lines. Yawning, swaying eucalyptus. A bellowed spark, instantly inflaming to a wild, tumbleweed conflagration. Boom. It’s huge. Lost millionaires’ homes. The TV copters hover, the flying boats drop their chemicals, it’s all done from the air. The air - who’s seen it? Who’s seen the wind? Or its movement. Not it, but its effects. Who’s trippin down the streets of the city? The banging shed door. A bike falls over. Rippling Visqueen. Seagulls stoic in the sand. Flags ripping full. Strange ghoulish howling. Cars careening wildly against the intimidating unseen forces. The wind screams Mary. Rampant craziness among scrap-pickers and short-change artists, their kingdoms run amok. The wild ilk has been overcome, over shouted by the silent silencer. Spring flexing its muscles. Crisp, clean, snappy. Opening holes for the raw sun to stream through, to warm and nurture. Slapping waves against cold shadowed hulls, a crisp vitality in its rhythm. Powerful clouds of gale force streaking through town, hurtling hurly burly whatever it pleases. Long fresh grass going through constant itchy motions. I’ve got to secure my fedora. Batton the hatch. Curl up the collar and wrap it around me. Enjoy the crisp vitality. A slight chance of thundershowers. Alive and vital.

No thanks, I’ll stay inside.


April Fools

People keep running into my fat gut… Foolish, no? Double rainbows and huzzahs and hippie yamuka’s on Dan’s polaroids. Wrong side of my face? Slick cinematic streets, and people still don’t know how to drive! Spinning wheels, locking brakes, waitin’ to slam into me, target Jetta. Just need to do the painting.


Lost (and then found) Memo

Craniometric - science of measuring skulls

Sphenoidal - wedge-shaped compound bone of the base of the skull at roof of the pharynx

Pharynx - cavity connecting mouth & nasal passages with esophagus

Fontanelle - one of the spaces between the bones of fetal or young skull, opening for the discharge of pus, from fountain

Decoction - water in which a substance is boiled to extract its peculiar properties or virtues

Preterits - past, bygone



I died a slow and thirsty death.

The cicadas, six years + in hibernation, finally awoke from their larvae in the saplings of the jacarandas to infest and dominate the whole grove. Little did I know they’d take over those limber trees, causing them to precariously tilt to the point of breaking. Thousands of insects, I guess that’s what they were, creating strenuous pull on the precious flowers of mother nature herself. The brilliant purple blossoms, indigenous to the tropical areas of America constituting this bignoniaceous genus, were all but obliterated in the widespread cacophony of those scratching legs. Louder than lawn mowing. Louder than screaming over lawn mowing. Fluttering primordial creatures, invading every orifice, like it or not. Usually not.

My college friend Carl lived in Tucson at the time. It was Thanksgiving in the desert. Bike riding. Moon staring. Hiking the back canyons. Rejuvenation.

It was part of my year of traveling around the country, visiting my friends. Kind of an inverse reunion. Just got back from visiting the Whites, out in Virginia. The kids are all grown and gone now, and one night over their forest view and some more red wine, we realize it had been 7 years since our last old escapades together. Building the house. Canoeing on the Shenandoah. Mowing lawns. The archaeology museum. Early departures. Michaele still hating me. Henry doing nothing.

So now I’m lounging in the backyard, a beer under my belt. Sun belting down. Morning paper’s done, no new line on tomorrow’s big game from anywhere, sunglasses on, just lounging. Maybe a bike ride before lunch. Afternoon toke. Nature appreciation. Enjoy the world; the cacti.

Our hikes are usually around sunset - up Chayo Canyon toward Master’s Peak. The jumping Cholla cactus. Barrel Pipe. Seguarro. Stovepipe. Hip flask. Our favorite stone cairns, one new for each new hike. That one sunset view down the canyon - all orange and purple. One more hard pull. Thousand stars. The cool evening air walking down the mountain toward the city lights.

Stools, benches, lounges. What’s the diff? We barbequed and drank tequila. Tiki lights, bongo jams. Great time. Later, then, bought beers at a Circle 7, way past 2 a.m. out driving around and the counter kid could appreciate our situation. We’re not bad boys, just need to see those howlin’ coyotes silhouetted against the rising moon. Golden Arizona. Roaring. Beers entow. The only way. This is history. Yeeoouwww!!

Ooh, now, today, the parade’s on mute. I think the bloody mary’s starting to help cure last night’s adventures. Longhorn cactus - the desert’s aquafir. Poor machete slashes from over-zealous tequila fanatics. When’s the game again? Anything else we need for dinner? Boyzit hot, unnaturally. Another drink?

She’s coming in ten minutes and my glasses keep steaming up. Even in this aridity. Maybe it’s the headache. Got to wipe them with the pressed hankie in my left vest pocket. Why’m I so anxious? She only takes the life out of me, knocks me down and I’m lying gaping, grunting, flopping around on the floor in front of her like some big bottom-feeder that’s slowly dying amongst the sawdust by the barrel kegs on the creaky hardwood floor in the back room of the old general store. Geezers looking on. Before he’s iced. No common sense, just dumbfounded amazement, and that precocious male-hormone lust kind-of-thing that precludes rational cognition in the presence of true, female beauty.

We’re sitting up on the top deck, top of 3 built in the backyard - with a special loveseat to most appreciate the view - and she’s as nervous as I am. Why? Jenny’s arrived with her entire serving dish of sweet potatoes and onions in tow, and for some just above reason won’t give it up. She’s jittery as all heck. We’re sitting, I’m steaming, and she’s holding her food awkwardly in her lap, mere inches away with her potholder mitts shaking. Because, I guess, of the stress of this situation. So apparent.

“What situation?” I ask.

“Ohhh, you know…”

“here,” I offer, taking the semi-platter, immediately relieving the air. My glasses unblock. Her mitts fall. We come to a momentarily quiet recognition… We link… And, that immersion blew off the holiday dinner that night, screw the rituals and national heritage. Too much food and the American Indian cause caused us to pass. Instead, we rubbed til dawn. Talk about Thanksgiving!

In the light of dawn it came up. Over cold beers and leftover drumsticks for breakfast, we capitulated into the sun. Thank God for Carl’s piñon garden, here’s Anne now with the O.J. “You ’re blasted last night, or what…?”

The only thing this place needs is a pool, and probably in 20 years there’ll be one, right here, I hope. It’d be nice, right now.

Jenny’s so cool, God, I’m in love. Let’s go drinkin’ and dance on tables, kiss in public and boogie it down. God her bod.

That night, the cowboy hats appeared at our doorway, before we could focus. But, y’know, when you’re out there on the road and there’s the smell of Anne’s eggs and bacon, crisp, enticing, full; you snap to and our curled loins rebound to today’s schedule.

Remember the old heaven joke: Monday we smoke, Tuesday drugs, Wednesday drinks…

Yes, of course the old brunch tradition from college actually precludes our presence here. Why did she come? Why am I nervous? Why did I have to die? How? I’m babbling and it’s going nowhere… Ken Kesey wrote to himself. Why not include it?

Ever since my childhood, just like the Anglo-American boyish tradition of tree climbing, I guess trees seemed to be my friend. How I related to them through the traditions of the American Indian, their intellectual use of all of Mother earth’s resources, of use, reuse, total use, reduction and recycling, of concomitant values of the earth. How did the Mandans, the Sioux, the Navajo, the Arapahoe, the Potawattami, the Lackawanna, the Cherokee, the Kree, the Monrongo, the Maliwea, the Tippicanoe, the Hopi feel about trees? What arm of Mother nature sky earth are they?

Also what about Swiss Family Robinson? Total tree life. Famous for it. Except, I guess for the rolling cocoanut bombs or ostrich races. They lived in trees, I tell you! You can even visit, in Anaheim.

I could never see it coming, really, even if it was staring me right in the face. But in fact, I always felt it was going to happen. Preminiscience, maybe. Final fatal vision, yes also. But in the micro-mini-seconds of the last, final moments. Does your life really flash about? Z asked me that recently and I quavered as to if it really occurs then, yep, you’re dead… to maybe it’s kinda loosely happening and then, nope, you’ve somehow been saved and you’re not gonna review your life - as much as we’d all want without actually dying.

No, it’s trees. Trees the culprit. Think about it. When the storms come through, it’s the images of the downed trees we remember. The windbreaks. The rivers’ oases. The romantic lanes, for shade and shelter, crestfallen by destruction.

How could I see it coming? It was there before I saw it. There was nothing I could do? Yeah, Johnny Appleseed said that, and so did I. But look where he took it, buried in Ft. Wayne, Indiana - in case you want to visit his pioneering gravesite - or the whole Huck Finn / Mark Twain / Americana viewpoint. Trees were our forts.

Or else I careem down a freeway, knowingly drunk, and slam into… thus ending it all.


Drunken Vince Foote Dream

Can’t remember the night before

What time, bed?

Flurry in my brain

This dream …

Walking through the School of Design

Offices to the right, chevre and grapes laid out on waiting tables

How de rigueur! - of the current fashion

I’m passing, with my bike

Hopin’ wishin’ to again see Vince

Park the bike, O.K., I’ll have some cheese

Maybe try the office entrance - there he is!

Hello Vince! Hello Paul!

(Goatees galore?)

My god, you remember? Since then you must have had 250 kids.


Carlie wondered where I got your photo.

From my savings.

We hug, like great old friends.

Did you ever get a copy of my book… my autobiography… with the chapter on you?


God, I can’t believe we’re once again here talking, remembering…

Like the time he crashed through the doorway of beer cans


So how are you, I’ve got to go. 1 o’clock class

Your name on the wall as you leave - vice president @

General Motors. Chevrolet. Among others

Did you see my hangtag for…

Yes, Corvette. Lackawanna. It’s a shame

My biggest that didn’t get produced.

He walks up the stairway, past his photo mural, is that you? , off to class

I’m walking back to my bike with one of his pupils

“Yes, I met him in 1968, like a surrogate father to me. Always open, always questioning. He’s great, totally great.” Tears fill my eyes and choke my voice.

In my dream

I awake. 5:55

Time to run.




Laurence “Link” was a superfly. Dagwahna “Dog” was his sidekick, sort of. Their old car “Karate Tunnel,” they don’t quite remember how it got named, has luckily always gotten them out of “situations.” That old, cool Merc. The Karate Tunnel, yes… babe.

But this wasn’t just about automotive repercussions. No, this was class snobbery. No. This was first class techno-violence.

For some reason, Dog, luckily, in one of his court enforced classes got familiar with As soon as he had skipped the joint, he knew the future was the digital future. Cyber anything. Cyber snooping. Get that computer!

“We’ve got it made, Link. We just log-on to those snobs that dun us wrong, we find where they live, instantly. We invade. And we get some recompence!

“Random violence, for what?” Link thought. “You surf via the net into your victim? Their address and phone just a click away?… Yeah! I’m in…”

The Merc had just gotten primered, again, so they figured a couple-hour adventure in the warm California sun would help set the finish. They could jaunt down to the beach. Nice clean air.

Marcus Stone worked at home. He more than surfed the web, he was there, all alone, in that massive cyberspace. Being his one, false, fictional self.

Marcus was from the farmland of the state. Shy, yet inquisitive. That’s what brought him to the big city; the relative closeness and familiarity of its doings and functions, his attempt at being “hip,” there was just something that drew him there.

But all alone, alone… in the city? Oh gosh oh my dear! Just fortify and keep the door locked.

“How’d you find him, dude?”

“Uh, random search by last name, yeah. Stone - cool name, cool concept. So what gets ya stoned? M… the sweet lovin Mary Jane. M. Stone… Am I “M. Stoned?” I am “M. Stoned.” This, is our guy. I can tell…”

Oh, it was the raspberry colored iMac that probably did him in, just minutes out of the box til he was out there, a cork on the roiling internet ocean. He couldn’t even imagine the possibilities. He clicked on people: Who do you want to find, and where.

“Am I there? Let’s check.” Just a click away. He was there. “OK now Link, I’m clicking ‘Driving Directions.’ Look here, it’s a red light. See, right here, that’s all it takes. Tells ya the address, route there, mileage and approximate length of travel. Have I got it covered, or what? That poor sucker…”

There were four old Ford pick-ups on his block, Marcus noticed, parked nightly. Why they had come, he didn’t know, maybe Jose’s friends. But at least they were good eye-candy for his morning breakfast routine in front of the window.

The monitor automatically clicked on at 6:30. “Good morning.”

Marcus wanted to hop over to the local “java” joint to get an edge on the day, to quickly read the paper and maybe, maybe, interface with some other patron. If only…

“This guy’s right. Tonight it is, I’m not foolin’. That’s the Dog’s vote.”

They were already down to Venice Beach, not on Sunday, with all them dogs, roving packs of foxes (yesssss…), and still, those fucking hippies! Won’t they ever give that scene up? They’re surveying the scene off-weekend, stopped and parked temporarily in a red zone. Hung out for like four hours doin nothing, like being cool, superfly style, Dog all anxious, bikes and skaters passing by. Joggers breathing rhythmically.

“Damn, Dog. That laptop just keeps on running? You zoning in now? Got that Venice cam going?” Link straightened the iconic picture of Broderick Crawford on the dashboard frame. “Remember him? Highway patrol, always took his calls outside the car. Leaning on the open door. I gotta get me one of those microphones… Got the Merc. Love the Karate Tunnel.”

“Only for about the 14th thousandth fucking time, already. Sheesh, give it up… This gig’ll keep you in velour for months.”

4:30 hit and the Dog started to groove. “Well, look here, Santa just popped a spliff surfside here for samplin, whadda ya know. C’mon Link, time for some heavy manners…”

“Are you crazy, bro? That’ll wreck me and you know you too, and you’ll be back up the river, probably… But wait, however, where do you get the print-outs?”

“Kinko’s. 89¢ a page. 24, 7.”

“Alright, then, I’ll fall in tonite.” Link was cool, trying to be styling, way wasted, too, and Dog hadn’t messed-up too much yet. Altho…

“So if they know everything about me and my credit card number,” Marcus was casually mentioning over the front fence with Geoff, his other gay next door neighbor, “what’s the worst they can do? I’ve got everything shut. And the alarm’s always on, we’ve got the neighborhood protection group and your light seems to be always on… I assume you’re there… So why wouldn’t anyone else?”

“Ribs callin, Dog. Karate Tunnel diggin to the ribs, man. This be it.” The stone took hold.

Daftly, for some ratings reason, ABC was replaying its 1966 Sunday night programming - Maverick and that Northwest to Alaska goldrush show - to possibly kickstart it’s economy. Although you’d think Disney had quite enough money for now, thank you very much.

Garlanzo Izo had come-up with this great decision. It was his neck out on the line. A youthful outcast, he had gained his way into and through American culture by, let’s face it, really, lewd male sex acts throughout the TV industry, from local Miami stations all the way up to NYC’s top corporate offices. Mum’s the word, of course, with a conciliatory snigger. Eh eh… if only Uncle Walt knew…

Something about his upbringing in Guanabacoa, Cuba, the northern most city and closest to the U.S. during Fidel’s early reign, had predicated his thoughts on only television. On the fact that this medium could affect people. That if he could rise, to proper proportions within the system, he could be one tough dude to fuck with. Hence, his “boomer-bombastic” programming for those slacking boomer Wednesday nights. “They’ll love it. I know it. You can bet on it. I know it, sure…” He inconspicuously wipes off the sweat (“What am I doing?”)

Dog got greased out. Not enough napkins, but way too much grease. Ooh, those ribs…

This was the part of the joint where it all got out of right. Dog-gone, smothered by the wind, as usual, and now obliterated by ribs. Link - though he’s in hog-heaven, still as mindless and spent as Dog, the Merc, yes, Karate Tunnel, looked even better. It was one of those

“situations,” again, where, goddamn, the car has to save us?, the car pulls off the obliterating cool.

Marcus fluffs the suede pillows on his special VCR couch. He had made them a long time ago, as experiments for his parents’ Corbusier sofa. A nice counterpoint, he thought, but now, it was more of a battle of timelessness vs. invigoration, where does he meet that “life partner,” that special being, especially at his age.

It’s easy to just pull-down the menus of the sites he’s already bookmarked, the ones, no matter how shocking and exciting they first were when he could initially visit them, reveling in the spirit of the new, and free. But now, these same old sites, why don’t they update them, already? I’ve been there…

“Waitaminnit, I might know where you pulled off the kreeper, Dog, but I still can’t figure your laptop. You know it’s one of the few ‘PT’ words not yet in any dictionary? And how come?”

Dog knew Link was rambling. Santa, at 4:30, had been extra-special good. Minutia all of a sudden took on extreme relevance. Link began worrying about a new parking place, closer to the strike, even though they were still parked at Jino’s Rib joint. “But, man, it’s dark and I think I’ll need that map to be sure…”

Down the road… “Wasn’t this where we were before? I coulda swore this house looks kinda familiar…”

“Damn Link, where ya going? I said turn left back there, whoa, this whole boat’s rockin’. Wait, we’ll get there, just… I know this song, turn it up, will ya? Wait… God, I’m full, that was a primo eatery, got to give it to ya, but whoa, what was that sign?”

“I think your batteries are loosing it… No wonder that print-out was all smudgy - I mean bitmapped, right?”

Another single night, Marcus fretted. Maybe he’ll karioke in front of his double-wide bedroom mirrors. Alone. Or finish that jigsaw puzzle from Mom for Christmas. Again Abba, but maybe he’ll risk Garbage Version 2.0, but not too loud, not yet. Geoff might hear…

A pastel-yellow vintage pick-up truck quietly pulled into the last available parking space on the block.

Somehow, they perambulated over to Kinko’s by Lincoln, just before they closed at 11 p.m. “Enough of this 24-7 shit” thought Link, as Dog got his quality print-out for tonight’s big bonanza. The check-out girl - Drusheena - especially looked good, except for her missing tooth. Made her whistle as she talked. Dog was boppin’ - she was nasty…

“Your name tag sez Dru - what’s that spell?”

“Sheena - queen of the effing jungle… Got it, Little Tarzan?”

“Well, cinch my belt… And raise my voice, just wanted to know, inquire actually, of when you’re done with this already here, and maybe partake with us in Santa’s seasonal holiday spliff. A blessing via reindeer from on high… Get my twist?… Link just stood there, disbelieving.

For the last coupla days, his cel phone had been buzzing when he answered at the normal place - the window box in his kitchen. He’d had to have moved to different “reception” spots around the house to keep his conversations static-free, but now, finally, he was forced to pressing his face against the bulletin-board by the back window. He’d had to have moved his high-school momentos to the outer edges of the tackboard to accommodate the close pressing of his left cheek to the cork. The pushpins were gone, only now, in a silhouette pattern, his static conversations abrazing the porous surface. “What kind of shit is this?”

“We gonna mess him up good… if need be. I really just want to check-out his digital files, as well, his basic back-up platforms, any illicit programs he might have purloined… Isonometric shit, y’know…”

Men from the Pacific Division had guessed at Dog’s intentions. They’d been monitoring his internet activities, surreptitiously. They’d also had Jose under their control. They knew he and Dog were connected. What kind of mess could they pull through him, and how? Anyways, the vato pick-up front didn’t hurt.

They were waiting…

Dru was a laff-riot, once she got off, only minutes later. God, she sat astraddle the two front bucket seats and the 5-speed stick shift, laughing and suggesting a cool, private spot down by the beach. “We’re off” went Dog, even though he wasn’t even driving. “Gerrada-aus, hombre…”

Link was floating down in his consciousness and now, with the waves crashing and Dog and Dru making-out like lost puppies on a teat, and all those planes, count ‘em… 13, coming and going from LAX tonight - where else can ya see this? - this was true, cool Southern California…

“Geoff, please. It won’t be like it used to… You know both of us have changed, and I know, I, at least, for the better…” except for this damned tackboard in my face, thought Marcus, “I just need your reassurance, your comfort, your support… I don’t know, maybe I’ve had a bit too much white wine, so sue me… And I’m sorry it’s so late, but… We need to talk! No, more than talk…”

Santa’s gift spliff miraculously appeared right about dead-on midnight. It was like the wrecking crew had hit home. (Silver Virginia summer days.) Instant connections to ancient pyramids, French expressionists and drooling through the dictionary - that’s a cool word. Phosphorescence in the rising tide’s waves. The Karate Tunnel at peace, basically wrecked. They all lounged supreme. Link, knowingly, agape at the sudden burst of extra stars overhead, adjusted his futility.

“You what?,” she pulled-back langoriously. “Mess up this guy cuzza his name sounds, what?, cool? Some weed-stone, wasted shit name…”

“That’s right - and Santa’s right. Wipin’ the slate clean with this print-out, Link, let’s cruise… as if his second-rate status held some power, no longer realizing Link’s reality.

“Yeah, right.” Link could no-longer find the target house than dance the arabic junta at Slobodon Milosavic’s funeral. He’d be better off ordering a hot fudge sundae at Carolina Pines Sunset than thinkin about twisting that key in the ignition to actuate the simple plans for tonight. Yeah, right… Dog and his damn weed…

“Oh thank you, Garlanzo, for calling back. I wasn’t sure if I rest alone tonight without you, should I say, input or not. There’ve been these men outside all night, hanging by this butch, old pick-up truck, but they’ve only flexed and posed, yet never removing their sunglasses. Kind of a Men in Black thing happening. I’m picking-up some sorta government vibe…”

It was time for Link to decide: sleep instantly, now, or totally fried escort, in harm’s way. His instincts somehow went with the first reaction, but in the process, what happened to what tonight’s about?…

Why’m I still sitting here in Venice?… What was the mission…?

And Dog’s back working on a hickey the size of Oxnard…


The Night Porter

I always sleep in the upper berth, but like I’m on the floor. It’s cuz I snore. Foam pad, with only an old quilt cover, nothing more does the job, as the Wolverine Express chugs up to Annondale. The passing signals go ding-ding-ding-dong-dong-dong.

Just before dawn the Night Porter quietly turns on the hallway heaters, softly, purposely

banging the metal grates shut, successfully waking us all up, way too early. Out the skylight, a silver jet flashes across the steel blue sky.

Breakfast is sourdough toast and two large orange juices. Plus vitamins. We pull up the blinds to let the sun stream in, warming the early autumn chill. The rhythm of the rails chatters the china. Ah, Sara…

There still seems to be a ruckus in the rear baggage car even at this unseemly early hour. A loose rhinocerus, or ape, or something, so be told. Or else those drunken lodge guys from last night’s rambunctious party. The Night Porters are now running back and forth, through our

dining car, eyes all a’bulging, remarking on shotguns still being fired. And such.

We’re due in in just under two hours and finally reunited. My love, my life (I believe), my future (I hope.) Ah, Sara… But, now, the best way to get rid of those rude, obnoxious bums, exaserbating us all, and to relieve the rest of us from this bedlum, is to just unhitch that final car, let it sidle on the side track, we’ll continue on through, noone for the worse, and only a bit behind schedule.

Last night, oh man, what a thing! The Night Porters couldn’t rest.

Mother, not deigning to go less than first class, although it’s just an overnight voyage from New Canaan, and maybe it would do her good to possibly, just once, journey with the masses, to further educate her already ‘totally complete comprehensive knowledge of all mankind, was late for breakfast. “All those noises,” she claimed as reasons to not fully prepare her full face in a timely fashion.

I couldn’t help notice the couple at the next table this morning. He had such a chin dimple, it didn’t seem possible. They had looked at each other like some thing from the most illicit affair anywhere was happening, or at least mostly inevitably imminent. Their sly smiles gave it all away. We could almost hear the soundtrack music behind their silent dialogue as they decided on what front to present. It really was a very gracious movie. Their breakfast just smelled of unconsumated lust.

We jerked awkwardly as the train clumsily disengaged that rowdy last party car.They probably couldn’t tell. Or so we were told. Mother, upon this sidetrack, couldn’t get un-discombobulated. And, my God, this was a non-smoking dining car, of all the nerve. What have we come to?

After breakfast, though, we had to hide all the costumes that we used the night before, just to at least be a part of this whole party lodge scene thing. I put away my rastafarian wig, along with the tri-colored vest. I mean, we were just back from Cabo, and although Mother was with us, why not continue the partying, at least when she’s ensconced, smoking her cig’s, as if we didn’t know or couldn’t tell.

Our Porter, Riley B., respectfully raps on the door, inquiring if our baggage is in order for our destination, no way, not yet, we reply. How can we make up for last night, and all those eradicated lodge guys?       Is this after breakfast? When?

Last night, late at night, we opened the window in our pullman to experience the rushing wind, the chill of the air, and the lonely moan from the tires of big rigs howling down the highways,   the lowly sound amplified through the dense, quiet darkness, fulfilling their parallel commitments.

Wild men, in lodge-horned hats, burst through our quiet, club-car scene, almost tippling our gimlets. They were going for the rhino, going for the rhino, they chanted, rumbling towards the rear. Some were miraculously wielding big game guns. My God, we thought, what’s all this? What’s all this? Mother didn’t seem too shaken, mainly stirred!

Maybe her folks will be there to meet us with their woodied station wagon, to rescue my luggage and purvey it to their manse. I don’t know how big it really is, never having encompassed the entire compound, but, God, it’ll be great to see Sara once again. And I know that Mother’ll be impressed by their neo-colonial New Englandish digs. She’s like that, although she smokes constantly, and I don’t know how well that’ll go over.

Or what about that weekend in Vegas? Oh my, the crowds! Maybe we shouldn’t have gone over that holiday weekend. That’s why we had to split early for Cabo, forgetting to even bring the aloe.

Riley alerted us early-on to the fact that the lodge boys might be, as he put it, “carrying-on overboard,” possibly late into the night. This was their annual trip, unfortunately for everyone else aboard. He’d hoped it wouldn’t disturb our important journey. We’ll have a regular night’s venture and our destination t’morrow will be right as rain.

I awoke suddenly at 12:30, startingly awake. Muffled gunshots somewhere. My mouth parched, my pillow drooled. The water pitcher was rocking awkwardly side to side, sloshing and churning like a small tempest.

We excused ourselves so the adults could do “their thing.” We wanted to be alone, practically running upstairs to Sara’s room, flopping onto her bed.

And finally, the train rushed into the long, dark tunnel. The Night Porter smiling.


reet Beat Meltzer seltzer

reet peteet, all right


late model immersion into the conflux of Lipton / Kerouac / Ginsberg / Meltzer / Morrison trail - was Venice West beat? - too bad they had to destroy the final Gas House / Fortune Bridgo pillar. it was stoicly representative of Yes! something long-gone and part of venice - why tear it down?
lipton bollo tie golf cap beat.
instigator beatnikator horizontal slum prose geek


been reading the compendium of his music writing… based on the rep of “first with it man.” but by his own severe recognitions, belies “I only traded-em in for cash, don’t break the celophane.” how can this be the progenator of this/that him/her tis/tain’t ideologismic          whatever - to borrow from Dick Bruce M., to be the be-all ain’t this the tits!… how could he know? can’t tell any book by its cover & that’s EXACTLY what he did, just onto his own path and agenda. so why’s he the big cheese?
dig the style - keeps reminding of the great cyclical l.a. undergrounds - 40’s bebop
(s. central ave) 70’s punk (hwd) but also includes in a very indirect way - beatles stones (hates) dylan (loves/hates) j. morrison - totally loves, part of the picture along with
raymond chandler presenting l.a.’s style


natural effervescent mineral water containing common salt and small quantities of sodium, calcium and magnesium carbonates that clowns dowse each (other, rubes) with
a losing gush at the nearest carni balloon bursting horse race stand, flirtacious hot-air at the sideshow funhouse, men ogling those fresh nyloned thighs, cigars thrusting. 40s trash.
splurge! splash… a gushing of enticement. the whole skee roll gamboling jerry-built game of skill shills writ wet. just one in a line of reet beat meltzer seltzer just talkin’ just bein’
just rappin’ just bein’.



Ingvid Bailey wanted to live in a Frank Stella sculpture. But he didn’t think he could make it down to Miami in time. That’s where he knew the “Brazil Hat - Bandshell” sculptre was receiving its final  coat of gloss white paint, a couple days before any “official” function would - or could - take place there. “The better t trespass into, my dear.” And until the “official”

ceremonies were to begin, he, as a true art lover, would be more than honored, to be “thee 1st” habitant of this “public”, meaning open and equal to him, sculpture.

Sure, there were wild raves about the concurrent Stella show at the North Miami MOCA. And those hat-thing-momentos (really, monetary souvenirs) were selling unimaginably. Even intelligent cognizanti from the West Coast had lined-up to purchase the show catalog.

He picked up his date extra-early. They didn’t want to lose a minute. It was, of course, date night #1. And this was the big art opening night in Venice. The galleries… the scene… the all. Black thickness of art. Black, just black, the ambience, the art.

Jdef had to explain the meaning, the surface, the Southern Californianess of the sculpture upstairs, the lighting, the 60’s history of L.A. Pre-Pop Art, the metal flake, the spare minimalism of it all… My God, there’s Panno. Part of the great 70’s Venice

Aiko-Kenzo-Panno-Guido quadum verate…

Takes you back to the time. Early morning on Pier Ave - morning sunlight streaming in, Ocean Park quality, Diebenkorn proud, with the 400 lb. Panno, nude back then, with his morning love, still basking in an all-night lovefest. “Was that really you back then? I was just walking to work… Experiencing the real artistic life in Venice back then… Like Borofski’s

numbering of house and curbs…



The $16,000 PT Cruiser was all she wrote. Too bad there had been 2 of them parked outside the opening (although one was candy apple red, so that was cool). But the night, all black, this starry-struck night, and, as a matter of fact the whole night the whole weekend their whole life belonged to them. What better place to, not unwind, not renew, not anything, but… maybe, get away, reinvigorate, refresh, slow down. “It’s hard with this cool new rig” thought Jdef, but it’s part of tonight’s art. Tonight’s lights… Just look at the stars…

Luckily,  both the 60 and the 10 were open, due east, so of course it was the 60 to the Springs. With the full moon rising, at that point in the mountains east of Riverside where they could pull-over and see the reflection off the Salton Sea. Or 20 minutes later, a rare Jurassic sparkle off the newly-enfenced Cabazon “monsters,” [David Hockney would be artistically ashamed] and maybe the late-nite moon-glint from a pine way up at Idlewylde. Cooler air every minute. More intimate chances to cuddle. The stars expounding even as we tweek. A Coachella adventure - relaxing invigorating stimulating.

The lights off the new eyebrowed dash glowed pleasantly in the bask of their time ahead.



This was their red-letter day - April 25th. From now on this was their lucky lotto number 425. Their way to wealth and fortune. A house in the Caribbean - a whole life cruise to wherever. Basking, finally, in true pleasure. But this lucky day - it, their karmic redemption, had shown that, yes, it all comes true. Like some religious zealot, an honored belief, that long-termed zen/goodvibes/60’s fortune finally spins into coherence/cognicanse: “We are stardust, we are golden” - so said (sez) Joni Mitchell, our smoking neighbor. And luckily, they all knew it.

To be true.

For one, his car only needed $129 dollars worth of work at Billy Leaf’s, compared to the $459 estimate in Hollywood. Is it a rip-off? Vet Venice redeem. And the back fence, all right, and true, and Zack - his grade card all A’s - no trouble with that. And he had finally gotten a response to the 2-week old note as to why he needed a raise at work. Not the 4% he had wanted, but 2% nonetheless. Yes! Reinforcement of the status quo!

Down with the status quo!

A feeling of rats in cages - her red-letter abundance felt through the perfect spring air. All things right!



Wilbur & Orpheum - grand cousins to both Jdef & Barrymore - through a wierd sort of Louisiana lineage connection -  don’t ask me any more - I don’t know anything else - oh my God! They’re coming to town to spend an entire week! Even though we’d had probably the 2 most amazing weekends ever - I mean in the history of the entire Western Civilization -

especially including the Romans, who’re so hot right now - those Greek f’er’s - here we were coming off all that new-felt freedom. To wake casually, to mince about. Garden petitely, to then cavalierly decide what might be next, all the while dreaming of injesting all the “groovy”

additives to lubricate whatever may come. A dally  to the libe? Some time-ward stroll down the canal’s memory lane? Once, twic, 3 times the rentor, as possible conversation could turn to the sameness of, the view, the 20 year predication of the view, and although in a timewarp, still, the happy feeling of a subtle abode. And, most astonishingly - it was Orpheum - whom we perchanced upon - like a bolt of Bubba Gump shrimp mojo - just strangely happening across this path of time. Same house - same style. Most amazingly - she invited us into the finca for some tinto.



Lulu was out walking her old white Lab Mangia, with the bad left rear hip. They perambulated the same route daily, so that meant they usually visited Jdef’s front lawn about 4:30 daily. The only lawn along the avenue open to the public sidewalk - sans fence - accessible to the lush green marathon carpet, usually long cuz Jdef wasn’t that concerned with lawn maintenance. And Mangia loved this patch of turf, and she showed it by immediatley rolling on her back and wallowing about, uttering these most gutteral of dog bellows. Back and forth, chiropractically writhing, somehow relieving the gross displacia, emoting forth so that it was now uncommon for both Barrymore and Jdef to immediately imagine sex - for these were robust sex-tones, the sounds of ecstacy - dog ecstacy as it were nonetheless - right outside the window. Not unrequited - dog love. Daily. And it drove Septum nuts. That little monkey

just couldn’t keep still.

Lulu waved as usual, just as the phone rang. El Sabio, calling from Seville. “Lost my toque. Don’t know what to do. Soleá’s for shit.

What should I do?”



Dis-invent - separation, negation, or reversal: from word  bases not actually found as individual English words; and to come upon, meet with, discover, find, originate, devise.

It’s either a composition on why there’s Nutty-Buddies (ever had one? I useta practically live off them in college - hated when the paper top would get stuck when peeled-off the chocolate crown and the nuts might flake off) and how to rectify this uneatable paper/dairy conundrum.

- or -

Reversing the safety idea of auto crash bags. Too much violence - the explosion  of the bag in reaction to the energy of a collision - which automotive scientists found easily justifiable - look at all those lives saved - and therefore, quid pro quo, a godsend.

I write not.

In this aftermath of horrible unnecessary injuries, delicately destroyed lives, and mostly avoidable, it seems a pre-requisite to dis-invent these wholly destructive safety devices.

It seems that once again the automotive industry used “price vs. safety” to prematurely foist an incomplete solution altruistically on the public. Too much damage vs. not enough research into the “real” solution to collision - injury - avoidance-mechanisms.

Instant jets that fill the car chamber with dampening foam - as fast as an airbag - thereby saving all?



Reginald was going at Samantha’s slit like noone’s business. She tasted so good. He’d seen all the porn sites on the web. He’d talked-it-through with all his bar mates. But this lust for her was just too much. All the details of her private, tender parts, the wholly cleavage of St. Mary’s labia, unshaven like he liked it, was just too much. He was nervous and excited just calling her. Tomorrow? Date night #1 - Friday? You bet –

there’s nothing on TV anyway.

She said yes.

He immediately came.

Just at the thought of this date, Sam started rubbing herself - knowing that Reggy was going to be good.

She’s quiverring so much, he has to back off. God, this is great!

He’d been slow and sensual, respectful of her urges, yet totally the perfect brut.

God, he is good.

Reginald pulled back just enough to get a great glance at Sam’s gaping, yearning


She was wonderful. She looks wonderful.

He inserts 3 fingers to help finish her off and now she blissfully comes. He remembers this too well, as she’s just “another woman.” The one we …

His tongue - her pud - almost perfect.


summer 74

marcia stone and paul tanck both individually moved to venice in the summer of 1974. they met in 1978, and have lived together on rialto avenue since 1980.

paul- hi. this is us. and we’re gonna talk about our first days in venice.

marcia- i know that it was in september -

p- of what year?

m- in 1974. and i know that i moved in on a saturday. and the day was so involved with the moving -

p- where’d you move from?

m- i moved from malibu. i lived on the beach in malibu. north of topanga. so, it was a moving day and i’d come from this really peaceful place, right on the beach where i saw very few people, y’know, dogs and people sometimes on horseback, but rarely. i moved to -

p- which canal?

m- carroll canal. and this year was the festival. i just happened to move in the day before. and i woke up that morning and it was sunday and i thought "my god -" and now there’s all these people and there’s music and it’s like a love-in. it reminded me of a love-in from the 60s. and i’m thinking this is really great but i don’t think i want to live in a place where they do this every weekend. cuz i didn’t know this wasn’t every weekend. this was my welcome to venice. and i remember being a bit timid about it because i thought, man, i just really prefer the beach. venice was just overwhelming!

p- so then what’d you do after that? didja go out and join the crowds?

m- absolutely! it was great.

p- so then the next day, what’d ya do?

m- the next day i was still like moving in. i think i took time off from work. i had a job - i worked for this guy who invented the lucygraph, frank ashby. at gateco company. in -i guess- culver city. it was in a warehouse where they made the lucygraphs, and they were just starting to get into computers. and he was this very shy inventor guy -

p- we still have an operating one out in the garage.

m- i know.

p- so this was the 7th canal festival and the 8th a year later was the death of the canal festivals?

m- i think the year later was the last one, actually. because that one was when mark and caroline were out visiting from san francisco and i remember there was a little rowboat that we rowed around in. and, we dropped acid. we dropped acid. that’s what we did.

p- for the ‘75 one?

m- yes, and the next one was the canal funeral. and i was into playing my harmonica by then. i was into the harmonica. i remember too, the harmonica i got from the blues guy paul butterfield. yes! it was his!

p- so there you were out on the canals on acid with 2 good friends. that’s very venice.

m- yes. it was very venice.

p- do you know how many canal festivals there were all together?

m- i think there were like 6 or 7. i was only at the very end, for the last 3.

p- so it started in like 1970 -

m- monique (shick) would know. monique is the one who is like the keeper of the flame of the canal festivals.

p- we should interview her and then take hi-quality photographs of her posters just for posterity. we could make a little book out of it.

m- that’s a great idea and she’d totally get into doing that. it could be like our christmas presents to everybody.

p- we could have our hippie cloths in there, just like they were at the library.

m- yaow! she’d totally get into this.

p- yuk yuk yuk

m- we could. and this could be a little project, just with the friends that we have, the friends that she has. this would be very cool -

p- so now we’re recording about me.

m- right. so, your first day in venice was what day?

p- i moved in on a friday. it was june 21st of 1974. it was the day after the summer solstice, the longest day of the year.

m- and you moved from where?

p- i was living in west hollywood. my old girlfriend karin moved out to phoenix to be with her other boyfriend gary, who was playing in the nba at the time. so we got good laker / phoenix suns tickets whenever the suns were in town. i had gotten a job at doug boyd’s, which was on 3rd street and santa monica which is now the 3rd floor of the gap on the promenade. it’s like the storage room now, which is like weird, y’know. i tried to go back there and i couldn’t get back there. with this job in santa monica, it was very inconvenient to commute from west hollywood, which was ridiculous. and the van i had at the time was very unreliable.

m- that was bill.

p- so i guess after work one day, i said "well, i should move to venice. why not? it’s the beginning of summer right now, and i’ll just drive along until i find a place." just like, naive. so i found this place on westminster, just west of pacific avenue. 40 westminster #5. go down through 2 doors and then you get to my pad in the back on the left. it was great. it had early morning sun. it had southern exposure all day long. it was a great place.

m- do you remember what your rent was?

p- yeah, it was $120 bucks a month. the manager lived on the 2nd floor in the front. and i went up there - and this was 1974 - and he was like a hippie. he goes "hey, you wanna get stoned?" and i went "sure." it’s like after work, and here i am finding a place to live that was ok, what i loved it was close to the beach. yeah - it was a half a block from the beach! so, we got really stoned and then he goes "i have to have you sign the contracts now." so i say ok, sure. so i say "120" and he goes "yeah, 120." and then like two weeks later when he finally came out of the fog, he goes "120 dollars! it shoulda been like 190 or whatever it was." i said, "i’m sorry. i got cha there." he goes "ok, it’s no skin off my back. i’m living here for free and i’m the manager. ok, great, c’mon by any time." so, that was like my first connection with any drugs. hadn’t even moved in. so then i packed up. friday night i remember pulling in, unpacked the van. i had all the boxes, i had my bed, i kinda just like did it. and i was like  "aaaah." i remember actually thinking, "here i am in venice. aaaah. this is gonna be a cool part of my life." 30 years later, i’m still here.

m- you can’t get away.

p- so the next morning i wake up. "aaah, it’s the summer. yesterday was the summer solstice. this is saturday morning. i just moved to the beach. i’m going to the beach." so i put on my shorts and i grab my towel and my flip flops and my sunglasses -

m- which beach did you go to?

p- straight down westminster. i mean, what the heck! you live at the beach, you go to your beach. you check it out. i walked down to speedway, and then to ocean front walk. right there on the right was the lafayette cafe. that’s where the lafayette was -

m- and then we can have whole other future conversations about breakfasts at the lafayette.

p- yeah. so i just kept going. i get down there and it’s like 10, 10:30, whatever time it was. oh my god! it’s the nude beach! i lived exactly up from the nude beach! i went "oh my god! it’s the nude beach!" i’d barely heard about it, but now, there it was. it’s like, this is my beach! it’s the nude beach! so i like went, "ok, i’m here."

m- so your first morning in venice is at the nude beach? y’know, that’s comparable to mine at the canal festival. but you know, i remember the nude beach that year because that was the summer, and i went to the nude beach -

p- i was there. i was like -

m- i never saw you

p- well, yeah. the first day i remember really quite specially, it was like really cool. plus, just the swimming in the water and the feeling of the ocean with no clothes on. it’s just like so - it’s so nice.

m- it was so perfect back then -

p- yeah, and everybody was just like -

m- really cool

p- yeah, and the lifeguards, they knew how to take care of the guys that were jerking off under their towels. they just came up and said, "c,mon. haven’t you got anything else better to do? c’mon!" just doing that to the guy would just totally embarrass him so he’d have to stop. i saw that, y’know -

m- i have a really funny story about that, because i have this friend, georgette. blonde nurse, santa cruz gal. she told me that she was at the nude beach with a girlfriend. and there was some guy walking around taking pictures. and he was like wearing shorts and sneakers, like one of those tourist guys. "hi. hello. i’m a tourist." and taking pictures. and they pants’d him. she and her girlfriend just pants’d him, and said "y’know, you’re gonna take pictures of us - you can’t be here unless you’re with it or without it."

p- that’s kinda like my thing. one sunday afternoon, it was like 5 or 6 or 7 o’clock. it was like the summer time and the sun went down and everybody stayed out at the nude beach until the sun went down. i put on my clothes and was walking back. and these two old ladies were walking up and wearing old, like old ladies from texas clothes. and they go "‘xcuse me." and i go "yeah." "is this the nude beach?" i’m going "yeah. it’s the nude beach." and they said "we wanna get a picture. can you take your clothes off for us?" < laughter ensues > i went, "no." i said "just go on down there if you want to take pictures ladies," knowing it was a very long walk for them and they just wanted to get their cheap thing. but i wasn’t gonna give them < laughter again > even though i did have the overall tan which was great and i loved it.

m- haaa! imagine showing these pictures to their nieces today. uhhh -

p- but the nude beach, it got all controversial. had to go before the city counsel. and i think the city counsel might have decided that it was ok to have this little designated area on the city property -

m- i think they did.

p- no they didn’t. and the reason was because people were protesting for it. they went in there and they got naked in the  city counsel, instead of just playing it cool. so because they got naked, then it’s like "of course we can’t do this! if we allow nudity there, then there’ll be nudity everywhere. it’ll be the naked city" kind of a thing. i think that’s what happened and that’s why it finally got shut down. but i remember the police, the cops were really cool. there were people that were peace and freedom party guys going around, and it was just, it was really, really cool.

m- it was the feeling of 1970,  ‘71. where it was a kind of a post-woodstock feeling of we’re all cool, and everything’s great, and we’re all one and you’re brother and my sister -

p- yeah, it was great. i spent my whole summer body surfing nude. and it was great! i remember tommy arakas and his cousin the voice came and we all just went naked. and it was just, phew, such a cool -

m- but that lasted what? really one summer -

p- yeah, just 1974.

p- ok, your final wrap-up paragraph.

m - my big issue was, if this is the way venice always is,  i don’t think i want to live here. < background chuckles > but this is really, really fun for this weekend, and i have to look into this. (tape cuts off)

m- alright, here’s the thought. the nude beach -

p- my final paragraph.

m- should i ask you a question?

p- please.

m- so, is it going?

p- it’s rolling, bob. < yuk, yuk, yuk >

m- so here you moved in and did your move-in day thing, and the next day you had the experience of walking down to the beach, and "oh my god, everybody’s nude. this is the nude beach." how did that effect your concept of living in venice?

p- shhht, are you kidding me? it was great.

m- how did it make you feel? did you feel like you landed home?

p- yes. i felt like i was at home. there are certain spots in america - in 1972 there was a section of richmond virginia called the fan. this was the section that was like the east village, that was like berkeley at the time, which was like venice. there was just like these cool communities. i really felt like i was home. it was weird because two years before, i had driven across the country with some friends. just because that was what you did. we followed the rolling stones around the country and i remember we were staying on the beach in santa monica at dr. henry jones’. just two doors south of mae west’s old property. who knew at the time? we hitchhiked down pch. we said we want to go to venice. we heard venice was a cool place. so we got a ride with some guy in a chevy pickup truck. he got off on lincoln and then he kept going south until we got to venice boulevard. and he goes "here you go. venice boulevard." so we got dumped off at lincoln and venice and we started walking west. and i was going "this is pretty cool." it was kind of like slumming because that’s when venice boulevard was just kind of like nothing. it was like the old trolley tracks, and then it got patched in and it was where all the hippie truck guys lived and all that. but, i remember on a telephone pole in the median across from where old hull lumber was - grateful dead at the hollywood bowl, the next week. i ripped the poster down, and i’ve still got it right out there in the garage. i could get to it in two minutes. my next recollection is walking down windward avenue, so somehow we got from venice boulevard and west washington at the time to windward avenue. and i was going "i really feel like i’m in a band or something." it’s kind of like the rock and roll vibes about the city or about the bohemian aspect. it was just like a feeling i got. and then we turned north and walked along the boardwalk. at that point in time, everything was all shut down. there was no developments at all. there was the lafayette cafe, and there was that guy’s house right next to it. so this was in ‘72. in ‘74, two years later, who knew i’d be living there? i’m living in the same exact place, right outside this person’s house, and that’s where the nude beach was. my whole wrap-up is i think that for me the whole idea of the nude beach came at the perfect time in my life. i was 23 going on 24 two months later, after i moved in there, and it was just so lovely. it was like a hippie paradise. at the end of the first day, you remember janet planet?

m- yeah

p- that’s where i met her.

m- oh well, there’s probably lots of them.

p- there are. van morrison was married to a janet planet, or somebody else was married to a janet planet. so janet planet was a cool name, but her name was janet.

m- she was definitely one of those janet planets.

p- she was. and that’s where i met her the first day. so then i’m laying there and i’m like frying my wienie, and she’s like "can i lay down next to you?" and i look at her and go "sure." and she was blonde and surfer-chick-ish. she was already tan all over.

m- she was a regular venice local. a person you could trust.

p- yeah. she lived over east of lincoln across from bill warden, your auto mechanic guy, on that street. there were some properties there where all of a sudden everything stops, and its like nature for half a block. y’know, the road splits and then it comes back again. its like weird. she lived in one of those weird spots. it was like going to africa or something, when you went over to her house. it was like so weird! so i met her there -

m- we need to wrap it up

p- i loved the nude beach. everybody should be nude. i think that the nude beach is a very important section of the history of the entire 99 years of venice now. so therefore, i just want this section to be included in the free venice beachhead paper.



I came, attracted to the sea, to see what it would give to me. I got caught-up in its rhythms & motions, which opened a whole new appreciation of the world.

2/3’s water - born from the sea, that’s what we are - like the Venus Botticelli mural @ Speedway & Windward. A new spirit... Native Americans called the earth “Mother,” but I’ve found the ocean to actually hold those geological “Mother” feelings. I love it. Life at the edge of the continent, the known world so to speak, looking westward to the horizon, the edge, to the future - to who knows what - to Hawaii if you look hard enough - to the end of the solar system, infinite darkness of night & all those stars.

Wow, swimming in the ocean is great, too. It’s the salt on your skin. It’s the power of the waves. It’s the connection w/ the world on a totally visceral level. On really great days, you could just catch every wave, exhilarated by the power, & swimming like mad back out to catch still the next wave of the set. To do it all. Then casually yet triumphantly gliding into shore, ready to collapse onto your towel - always brown, accentuates the tan, you know - soaking up the rays & vibes of all the myriad types. The people attracted to Venice. I never say Venice Beach, that’s too gaudy.

Don’t you know that it’s the edge part, that we find attractive? Especially a part of the continent & the big, blue liquid void that fronts it. Our part of So. Cal. I guess it was maybe Juan Cabrillo that first ventured into these parts, so history says, & according to him, yes, this ocean was declared Pacifico - peaceful. And rightly so. The cosmos in harmony on earth, with this being the barometer. Peaceful ocean.

Or mirror. The water is clear, but the surface somehow reflects it all. Grey storm day; grey cold water. Hot, beautiful California days < Beach Boys inspired>; deep silvery blue waves with totally golden vibes.

Now this is Venice Beach!