![]() ![]() Our heavy debate of opinions that the stubborn both of us hold to as fact is a tradition reserved only for true friendships.īut with the start of the next song and a simple question from my old friend, we’re instantly drawn to a rare agreement. We argue like brothers about personal preference. The discussion of such music, as it is with any of my friends, is a cornerstone piece to our friendship. No geographical delineation of art has ever been so accurately representative of its surroundings. It’s amazing to be in the environment where this was all created. Payback is an important part of any long-lasting friendship.īy the time dusk starts to approach, we’re carelessly tooling around in my old friend’s truck, enjoying a breezy summer drive and listening to the music that made this city.ĭre. In a quick, single mechanical action, I place both hands on his chest, push, and submerge him unwantedly beneath a crashing wave. ![]() This time, it’s my turn to destroy such a moment of internal peace for my friend. In time, we each find ourselves each returning to that unavoidable sense of meditative relaxation with our ears buried by the salt water and our eyes rendered useless by the bright sky. We leap from the propped down tailgate, and dart across the white-hot sand to the water. The only times on this short trip that I haven’t found myself sweating have been those when I’ve been in the water. Yet, at the same time, my envy is stymied some by the unparalleled heat. But as a guest in these lands, I reserve right to be judgmental if they don’t. Surely, all of Southern California’s massive population cannot take the time every day to appreciate their surroundings. I wonder if my old friend takes days like these for granted. And absolutely necessary for the both of us. Some time later after a short drive beachward, we find ourselves eating some grimy street truck burritos by the sea. “I’m hungover.” A classic wakeup line from my old friend. I jolt forward, find my breath, and launch the football back in the general direction of its source before I can clear my eyes of the chlorine for an accurate shot. Then I’m hit in the face by the slap of a soaked-through nerf football. ![]() ![]() In a mixed effort to reclaim my memories from last night and also to purge myself of the pain this morning has caused so far, I rotate back into a float and find the sort of calming meditation that can only be unearthed when our ears are rendered useless by the weight of the water and our eyes glaze over in an unfocused stare at the colorful sky. Only by my old friend’s grace do I find myself skinny-dipping at sunrise in an effort to avoid a hangover – which can also be attributed to his generosity. That’s the quick explanation.īut, they’re also a welcoming people. Southern Californians are strange people. How do these desert folk splurge on backyard pool maintenance yet find themselves too cheap to make monthly payments for the electricity juicing an air conditioner? In lieu of a shower or cool air, I strip down naked, make a b-line through the sliding glass door, and cannonball into the pool. In search of a towel and the thermostat, I crawl out of my nest on the couch but quickly come to the realization that neither are going to be found in this place. There’s a stench, a sting, and a particular stickiness to my skin that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies. If there is a worse way to wake up than in a pool of your own tequila scented sweat, I never want to experience it. ![]()
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