There was a movie star in there somewhere. I could feel the buzz of big and important people nearby and
onlookers craned their necks to get a glimpse of the young woman sipping a coffee and wearing a white bathrobe
on the other side of the ropes separating the regulars from the unreal. I could see her but could not make out
which starlet she was from recent People Magazine photos I had seen or movies I had been to. But, I was quickly
bored because they were all waiting around getting ready to do this one thing that would last a very short time
and take so many people to make it happen so that it could be saved on film for a very long time. The live
impromptu show at the beach was far more interesting than this staged and slow moving affair.
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Writing
Back East, in New York City, when I walk into a restaurant with a
companion, it’s not uncommon to see a lone figure eating at a small
table off to the side and usually pouring over a newspaper or a book or
some work-related documents while they eat their meal. It’s hard not to
think of him or her as a lonely soul.
When I travel and choose to dine alone and become the lonely soul, I
don’t comfortably fit into the picture of my New York imagination. Usually
my stop has come after a long day’s travel and I relish the stillness of
mind and mouth for reflection on the day’s events. Over a glass of
soothing Cabernet I can gaze out a window or at nothing in particular
and allow the images of the people I have met and places I have seen
and conversations I have had to gel in my mind. I begin to make sense
of it all and connect the dots.Casual encounters which may have passed
into the background of my memory can rise to the surface and become
significant as I mentally sculpt out the day.
The restaurant I had passed was still in view as I crossed the
main street towards the gas station where the Hollywood set
was happening. I was still bathed in manufactured light and I
thought that those people and all the machines and wires and
trucks and equipment seemed so unreal. I compared them to
the piano player I had seen playing Beethoven and the artists
with such skill and thought that Hollywood had no idea that Jimi
Hendrix was here (A little bit of an awkward presentation of this
idea—did you know he was there or were you also unaware?) ,
right here on Venice Beach and that he was probably bedding
down for the night. As I began walking towards the darkened
beach I suddenly became aware of how hungry I had become.
A good friend of mine who lives in Manhattan, Bob, who is a retired NY PD Detective and now a writer and a damn
good philosopher, recently told me of fellow cop buddy living the simple life up in Harlem. “My ex-partner lives on
Second Avenue and 139th Street in an old four-story walk up. He lives there with his girlfriend and he
