Lobsterquest

I’m not one of those insufferable types who rolls out of bed and greets the day wide-eyed and full of annoying gusto. In fact, two of the most glorious words in my lexicon are snooze button. They run a close second to coffee. Coffee—the stuff of life. Without it, I’m a violent criminal. Potentially, anyway.

To make matters worse, Saturday night I had practiced the ancient art of insomnia. I tried to compensate by sleeping in late but only accomplished the in late part. So it was with laser focus that I arrived Sunday at the Lobster Festival in Redondo Beach, my roadmap peepers scouring the perimeter of the seaside lagoon for the stuff of life.

Immediately I began to suspect that the Lobsterfest had almost nothing to do with lobster. Food stands abounded, everything from burgerritos (probably safer if you don’t ask) to pad thai. However, the many lobster booths with myriad crustaceous delectables I had been expecting to find were a fairytale. Santa Clause. The Tooth Fairy. Inexpensive cellular. I walked with grumpy determination from booth to booth. What I discovered was far more shocking than the scarcity of lobster, something that rocked me to my very core. There. Was. No. Coffee.

Now distrustful of the whole event, I dragged my uncaffeinated body back through the food stands to pick up some lunch. That’s when I happened upon the event’s sole lobster vendor. Two dishes were available: A 1.25 lb lobster meal for $20 and a 2.2 lb meal for $40. Discuss. First, the pricing. Generally the price break happens when you buy more, not less. Doubling the price for less than double the food? Hardly surprising for an event that DOESN’T EVEN HAVE COFFEE! Second, I like lobster. Like. But love is the only thing strong enough to pry $40 from my clutches for lunch, especially when I had to fork over $3.50 at the ATM to get that $40. (I’m thinking seriously of going into the ATM business.)

My wife, who was beginning to look worried (she’s been on the business end of my coffee issues), sweetly suggested we eat something else. So we picked up cuisine that resembled digestible food, which we wolfed down lest we miss out on the “lobster” festivities.

After, let’s call it lunch, we exited the food section and walked to the other side of the lagoon to the vendors’ booths. One of the first was an oxygen bar. I secretly wanted to try it but couldn’t get the Budweiser “Mr. Oxygen Bar Inventor” ad out of my head. “You opened a business with only one true competitor: the earth’s atmosphere.” I slunk away sheepishly.

A couple of booths later, I stumbled upon a vendor who truly embraced the lobster spirit. He was sporting a bright red lobster hat and gloves. Yeah, I’ll take three of each. I don’t have enough social problems.

Perhaps I needed to look further to find the heart of lobsterness in this festival. The Harley Davidson paraphernalia booth offered tattoo sleeves for those who don’t possess enough youthful lack of foresight to get real ink. They also had knickknacks and T-shirts. Nothing with lobsters on motorcycles. The Body Glove concession wasn’t selling any lobster wetsuits. No lobsters were won or lost in the Tommy Bahama Barefoot Poker tent.

What has happened to the lobster spirit in this country?

Finally, I found the real lobster-related merchants. There was a Ford booth. Perfect car for lobster fishing. A couple of massage stands, no doubt wonderful for relieving the aches and pains of an all-day fishing expedition in a Ford Lobster Car. Time Warner had a booth. Lobster pay-per-view? And of course the mandatory slew of tchotchke vendors, all of whom had probably eaten lobster at some point in their lives. By the way, none seemed to be ringing up any sales. I’d have paid a thousand dollars for a thimble of coffee…

Finally we arrived at the main (Maine?) event of the Lobsterfest. What was that you ask? Why, the Beach Boys tribute band, of course. Beach—lobster—a stretch, but it beats the Ford connection, right? However tenuous their lobster link, the Beach Toys played the old surfin’ songs with perfect harmonies and musicianship, note-for-note renditions. Unfortunately they copied the early look of the band with equal accuracy, attired in identical green-and-white striped shirts and white slacks that probably looked dated when the original band wore them. Today, well, let’s just say I’d rather wear the lobster hat.

We took in the music for a while, despite the band’s fashion statement. Gray clouds hung over our usually sunny South Bay. I picked at melancholy thoughts about my life. My financial scarcity mentality. My nagging ingrown toenail. My appalling lack of coffee. The sun didn’t poke through once. But then I realized there was a bright side: we weren’t boiling in the heat. And neither were many of the poor lobsters.

In Search of a Masterpiece—Fiesta Hermosa

Fiesta Hermosa, the largest arts & crafts fair in Southern California, is free. I love art! So this weekend my wife and I, along with several of our closest destitute friends, rode the shuttle to the Pier, which is over half a mile from where we live—well past the L.A. maximum walking distance. Puh-lease, what are we, marathon runners?

Our shuttle—I use the word loosely—was anything but loose. I believe the words school bus were printed on its bright yellow surface. At five-eight, I had to turn partially sideways to keep my knees from fusing with the forward passenger’s vital organs. The squeeze, however, did bring some clarity to the anorexia issue. The body-image problems of our nation’s youth are not the result of being bombarded with images of gorgeous women whose thickest body part is a bleached tooth. It’s the tiny bus seats. They practically scream “fatty.”

We exited the “shuttle” on Pier Avenue, ecstatic to unfold from the upright fetal position. Instantly we found ourselves facing booths for Puppy and Kitten adoption (which now requires a more thorough background check than for human babies), a back-support gizmo, and the Republican Party. We sauntered forth, nearly certain there would be even more great art ahead!

My friends were hungry. It had been minutes since they’d eaten, so it was understandable. We hobbled on to the food booths a few blocks down and bought some grub. I managed half a Cajun sausage before reason set in. Once everyone was sated, we set forth on our earnest quest to behold great art. Here’s what we saw: three chiropractors, seagrass hats, Nu-Skin beauty products, reading glasses, chair massage, clothing, assorted means of tanning, aromatherapy, ocean booties, shaved ice, candles, swimsuits, and organic power bars. Move over, Picasso.

Many of the women were clad in bikinis, and it was obvious to me they had been victims of bus-seat treachery. Poor perfectly shaped things. I felt overwhelming sadness as I stared and stared and stared. My wife finally had to pull me away before my heart was completely broken.

We had art to see! So, we went down to the end of the pier and listened to a band play songs I had hated in the 80s. The band was fantastic; they performed the music flawlessly. I know that because I still hated it. And, yes, I’m that old. Shut up very much.

The band took a break. Dang. Is there really such a thing as too much Bon Jovi? We strolled out to the beach, dipped our toes, rested our art-seeking bones awhile. The day was delivered directly from heaven via UPS. United Perfection Service. People come here, to our home, on vacation. We must be doing something right.

Rested and ready, we headed back to the trenches in search of a masterpiece. Perhaps it was our new sunny dispositions, courtesy of the Pacific, but we stumbled upon art almost instantly. Most of it was…drum roll please…wonderful. There was awesome metal sculpture, tasty pop art, earthy Native American stuff, and paintings of sundry styles and subjects. One cool old guy displayed textured scenes of Europe he’d painted with a knife. Brilliant too. I could have bought one for seven hundred. But I was already out twenty for food and another fifteen for a zebra switch plate (a necessity, according to my wife). Adding another seven hunjie to that seemed somewhat ill-conceived. After all, I didn’t want to set a bad example for my friends. Impulse buying is a killer. Plus, I was a tad short…about seven hundred dollars.

When at last we practiced body origami in the shuttle and rode back to the high school, I reflected on my day. Though there wasn’t a ton of art at the art festival, and though I’d suffered some minor heartburn, sunburn, and walletburn, a profound realization came to light: it was time to drink! Oh yeah, I also realized I’d had an amazing time with people I love. And that, indeed, was a masterpiece.

We’re off to Sea the Wizard

Apparently there is a new maximum height restriction for Jedi knights: three feet. Once more, this new breed feels it’s necessary to brandish their neon lightsabers all over the place. Constantly.

At least, that’s how it appeared Saturday night on the beach during the free showing of The Wizard of Oz in Manhattan Beach. Don’t Jedi Knights know that lightsabers are very distracting? I mean, grow up, for cryin’ out loud.

In spite of that, it was a perfect night for a Beach Film. (Can we agree to call them Beach Films ™ KIRK MILLER, INC.?) A pleasant mist wafted off the Pacific, cool sand nestled between our toes, and an eerie orange moon backdropped the blood-curdling cackle of the Wicked Witch of the West. Hundreds of locals and…those others…eased back on blankets and view-blocking beach chairs (uh, hello, is it stadium seating or THE BEACH?), and watched Dorothy struggle to find her way back to Kansas. Kansas! The girl is in a magical land full of fascinating people, and she wants to go back to freakin’ Kansas. Seriously? Fine, Farmer D. Later. We’ll just be here flying and getting wishes granted and stuff. And by the way, the dog stays.

While we’re on the subject, the movie has changed a lot since I was a boy. Back then it was tremendously impressive. The Lion didn’t dress in pajamas, for one thing. Nor was the Tin Man’s face covered in discount silver spray paint. And the scarecrow didn’t have an inappropriate thing for Dorothy. Okay, let’s not go there.

I have other issues, as well. Ding-dong the Wicked Witch is dead? Isn’t it a little morose to be so chirpy after murdering someone? Sure, go ahead and be glad she’s dead—secretly. She was wicked; I get it. But singing and dancing seems a bit…detached. Exhibit two: the Scarecrow gets severed into pieces by evil flying monkeys. Perfect time for one-liners? “Well, that's you all over,” and “They sure knocked the stuffings out of you, didn't they?” Dude, that’s my torso over there. My torso! Think we could can the stupid jokes for a few seconds, Hannibal Lecter? Then there’s the sage advice from the Wiz himself: “…a heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.” Talk about flying in the face of every spiritual teacher who has ever walked the earth. Basically a formula for neurotic approval seeking and brown nosing. Really enlightened. On the other hand, he’s a short guy with a Napoleon complex trying to pass himself off as a giant, all-powerful, smoking head. That might have been a clueski right there.

All that aside, the Beach Movie ™ KIRK MILLER, INC. made for a terrific night. My unfortunate friends from unmentionable non-South Bay cities had a blast. I basked in memories of childhood (positive ones, for a change). The crowd laughed and applauded—there was no alcohol, so it was quite possibly genuine. And afterward the Mini-Jedi, most of whom were probably seeing the film for the first time, turned off their bright green and orange lightsabers, nestled into their mommies’ arms, and dreamed of yellow brick roads, fuzzy dogs, and true-blue, warmhearted friends somewhere over the rainbow.

Dude, How Did You End up in Hermosa Beach?

Alarm clock. Drag self to sitting position. Fumble with buttons. Punch clock. Throw clock. Break clock. Open crusty lids. Turn head. Ocean? Ahh yes, ocean!

Mornings didn’t always follow this routine. Waking in downtown L.A., for instance, was more a matter of what time a police siren would rouse me. Who needs alarm clocks when you have crime?

When my wife Abby and I decided that a $1700 one-bedroom was difficult to justify—even if it was downtown uberchic—we started hunting. One day, we took our search to the South Bay.

“The prices near the ocean are jacked-up,” I told Abby. “And who really goes to the beach anyway?”

“Okay, babe,” she said. “Let’s just take a look around.”

“Waste of time, if you ask me. I mean, you spend all your time inside your apartment. Shelling out for that makes sense. A nice inside.”

“Sure, honey. We’ll just see what’s here.”

We started in Redondo Beach. The Hollywood Riviera. Sweet. Many of the vacancies were cheaper than those of downtown.

“It’s too far south,” I complained.

“It’s not that far,” Abby said.

“If you own a helicopter."

We skipped up the coast to Manhattan Beach. I was starting to think the ocean was…not so bad. Certainly not worth breaking your back for, though. But pleasant.

We looked. Hard. No luck. Expensive. Ugly. A 350 square foot studio for $1800? A converted garage with no closets. We considered…roommates. Really? A moment of weakness. Don’t judge.

Every day we returned, though, the idea of living closer to the ocean became more appealing. The ocean is sneaky: it hypnotizes people into spending all their hard-earned cash. It’s like Vegas without the pinky rings. What I’m saying is that we were innocent victims. This preposterous notion that, “Hey, maybe we could actually swing this,” clearly did not originate with us; it was the ocean, man, the ocean.

Then came Hermosa Beach. We’d passed blindly through for weeks. This time, however, our stomachs were growling. In search of a sandwich or a falafel or maybe even a crepe, we headed down to the pier. I’d never seen the pier. Kismet. Chemistry. Love. Not your garden-variety love either; this was black-and-white movie love.

“This is where I have to live,” I said. “The coolest place I’ve ever seen.”

“Okay, babe,” my wife said, amused. Wives, right? They sit back and pull the strings, then their husbands come up with the idea all by themselves.

We scoured the 90254 zip code and found…uh, zip. Then one day, just before we called it quits, we stumbled upon a place we’d passed a hundred times. As unlikely as it may seem, the manager was in. He walked us up to a small one bedroom, a weird, knowing smirk on his face.

He escorted us into the small apartment. Living room: semi-high ceilings, new carpet. Kitchen: nice appliances, new fixtures, two-tone paint job.

He led us through a door. “Here’s the bedroom,” he said.

Blam! Panoramic view of the ocean, from Ranchos Palos Verdes all the way up the coast.

“H-h-how much is it?” I asked, bracing myself for a nasty depression.

“Twelve ninety-five. We pay the utilities. Oh, and there’s a thousand-dollar move-in special. The deposit is six-hundred.”

My mind was a blur, whirling around a single thought: What the hell are we waiting for?

My wife was still asking questions. What kind of stove is it, gas or electric? Do you allow cats? Is there a gym?

He might have answered: it’s a manure stove; we allow cats, but only so we can torture and kill them; the gym is in that asbestos, lead-paint room over there, the one where all those people are chain-smoking. I honestly couldn’t say.

I had always coached my wife to be neutral in these situations. Never act excited. Negotiation, 101.

“What the hell are we waiting for?” I blurted.

The landlord smirked some more.

Any decent, smog-fearing citizen of the South Bay can guess the rest. I look at the Pacific every morning. I breathe clean ocean air. I relax in the sand, in the sun—me, whom a roommate used to call Vampire. I wear flip-flops. Flip-flops, for God’s sake. It’s a tiny drop of heaven. The waves. The lifestyle. And the chicks. (Note to readers: my wife edits all my work.)

When I tell people how incredible it is, many have responded that they used to live in the South Bay. Always with that same glazed look: What happened? How did I go so wrong? Sad, really. All I know is, I’m never leaving. This is my home. My little Hermosa Beach, tucked right under the unsuspecting nose of Los Angeles.

And did I mention the chicks?