Venice Beach

It is amazing what a great summer one can have if one is willing to take advantage of one’s friends. Angelica calls to invite Micki and me to the adorable bungalow in Venice Beach she rents for the summer, so we grab the kids and jump on the first plane to Los Angeles. San Francisco is really a small quaint town, and we San Franciscans are a little small and quaint ourselves. Because we’re so proud of our “open-mindedness” our “green-ness before green-ness was cool” our “Prius driving-ness” our “Nancy Pelosi-ness” and our “willingness to pay for sex-changes for government employees-ness” we don’t realize how big the world is until we step outside.

Our flight to LA is delayed because of fog, so we find ourselves in the airport surrounded by LA people trying to get home. Micki and I start out trying to have conversation but finally stop the charade mid-sentence. We can’t keep our eyes off the LA women impatiently roaming the gates. The women in LA are nothing if not super-confident, and they give the pursuit of beauty their absolute all. In San Francisco, if the women get a brow-lift or a boob job, they do it so tastefully and subtly that you almost wonder why go to the effort. In LA, the women’s philosophy seems to be if a little is good then a lot is great. As Micki and I sit waiting at the gate with our tastefully expensive handbags, nice shoes and maybe one stylish piece of jewelry we stare in awe at the women of a certain age in super-short Chanel suits, Louboutin high heals, Hermes handbags, blonde hair fixed to a tee, diamonds on ears, neck and fingers. Then there’s their face…well, I don’t even know what to say about their face except there appears to be not one feature that has not been tended to. Micki and I finally turn to face one another. We simultaneously give a little start as we are confronted by each other’s suddenly way too porous, skinny-lipped and able-to-make-a-lot-of-expressions faces. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say, so we sit in silence for a while. I am feeling a little on edge and keep surreptitiously looking around. It must be obvious because Micki finally blurts out, “Rita Hanks and Tom Ford are not going to be taking the Southwest flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles so stop looking!” She knows me too well. “What are you talking about?” I innocently inquire. After a pause I say, “Anyway, I’m sure RiTo fly privately.” We stare at each other. Micki is looking at me as if deciding to ask. Finally she says, “What the hell is RiTo?” “It’s Rita Hanks and Tom Ford...combined…like TomKat or Brangelina…” I wish their names were more compatible, but I’ve done the best with what I have to work with. Micki sighs heavily, and we don’t really talk until we board the plane.

Angelica is waiting for us when we finally arrive at LAX. Our darling Angelica is a force of nature. She is interested, interesting and sucks the marrow out of life. Around her I feel like I only pick at life’s marrow then put the rest away for left-overs that I will probably forget about and end up having to throw away. She is full of adventure and stories...a bit like a European movie that you can’t stop watching, no beginning, no discernible end, the plot is un-important, but lots of character development. Around Angelica’s tanned vigorous body, thick wavy hair and zest for life, I feel more and more small, wan and pale. As urban and hip as I try to be, Venice Beach seems scary to me. I find myself thinking of sweet old San Francisco where people are cool and aloof…even the druggies in the Haight. People in LA are way too friendly and always commenting, as in, “I just love your neon yellow patent leather ballet slippers!” Now that could be a compliment or it could be someone making fun of you. I always feel slightly de-stabilized.

When we finally fly home and our respective Beloveds pick us up in their respective Priuses, we feel happy and secure to be back in our smug, superior, foggy, cold environment. As I happily sip my Peets coffee, I comment to Beloved, “As much as I love LA, it can be a little scary.” “Hmmmm” he replies. “Oh by the way, Sabrina called and wants to know if you know any ethnic minority children ages 12 and below. Her STD for Public Schools gala is coming up, and she needs around 10 kids for the modern dance portion of the entertainment.” “I’ll ask Rowena” I say giving my coffee a stir. It really is nice to be back in sensible San Francisco.

Comments

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I cannot wait to read what you have to say about New York!

Posted by: Sara Sterling | August 10, 2009 at 12:11 PM

Oh, I just knew you'd make the guy sleeping on the discarded mattress outside the door of my "adorable" bungalow seem glamorous! Also I'm pretty sure the wandering minstrel you photographed is Morgan Freeman....

contemplating a tummy tuck in Venice.....angelica

Posted by: carol | August 10, 2009 at 12:27 PM

I'll see ya at KUSH!!

Posted by: zack9900 | August 10, 2009 at 03:16 PM

My dear, you must visit Pasadena on your next visit down south. We are a town of 4 million old ladies in tennis shoes and mother's pearls and as Republican as dinasaurs can be, except for me, the one outcast Democrat in the city!