Note: I'm trying a new writing style for this entry. Long ago I had literary aspirations and these aspirations have -- at least temporarily -- reared their ugly head once more. If I can't write bad prose anywhere else, I can at least do so occasionally on my own blog. Additionally, this entry acknowledges my intimate familiarity with the characters and storyline of the TV series 'The Gilmore Girls.' For that, I make no apology. It's a damn fine show.
I loaded up my shoulder bag with everything I would need for a Sunday on the boardwalk. My phone, an empty Fuse bottle willed with tap water, and January's old copy of "The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch." Stopping myself at the door, I thought better of my default "jeans and t-shirt" attire and instead adopted the only pair of shorts I had thought to bring. They weren't even shorts, really, but rather a pair of swim trunks. I changed into them, put the apartment key in the mesh-lined pocket, and headed out the door.
The swim trunks proved to be a good idea; It must have been at least 85°F at just past noon and would only be getting warmer as the sun worked its way across the California coast. As I made my way down the street and toward the boardwalk, my mind moved to the episode of 'Gilmore Girls' where Jess visited his father in Venice. Jess was never without a book to pull out at opportune moments, and I wondered to myself where he would choose to sit amidst the boardwalk chaos.
Stepping out of the side streets, I approached the stadium seats that divide the boardwalk merchants from the basketball courts. I remembered this place as a favorite of many of the local homeless men who would spend their time on the sidelines sleeping, eating or just zoning out. Today however, it was mostly left to a few random onlookers, a young couple enjoying their overpriced and equally overcooked hot dogs, and a small hoard of pigeons hoping for their leftovers. I chose my seat on the cement steps directly behind the gentleman playing the didgeridoo, pulled out my book and settled in to resume reading.
Philip K. Dick's dystopian
future -- at least the one inhabited by Palmer Eldritch and Barney
Mayerson -- is one themed primarily by a sense of hopelessness and
escape. Global warming is in full force and the remaining inhabitants
of Earth are no longer able to survive the afternoon heat. The UN has
begun shipping colonists to other planets -- primarily Mars -- in a
draft-style attempt to force mankind into survival. With this forced escapism is the self-imposed escapism that
most of the colonists seek in order to retreat from the mundane existence of life on an unfamiliar planet with unfamiliar people.
While the more traditional of these colonists seek escapism by way
of hobbies, such as gardening with UN-supplied tools and crops, a large
portion seeks escape via the illegal hallucinogenic drug known as Can-D.
Noting his empty upturned hat, Mr. Didgeridoo decided to pack up his equipment and look for a more generous audience. With his departure , I realized that he had been instrumental in drowning out the repetitive calls from The Smoke Shop. "Get your medicinal marijuana here! Upstairs, second floor! The doctor is in! Get it legal, get it now!" In retrospect, I should have been more generous in tipping the musician who was keeping me from hearing this grating sales pitch.
I could feel the heat coming off the back of my neck and I thought it best to find another spot. I made my way toward the ocean which took me past the section of Venice known as Muscle Beach. There are few things that can make a thirty-year-old, overweight man feel as inadequate as walking by a place called Muscle Beach. Moving quickly past, I carefully maneuvered my way across the heavily populated bike path on to the sandy beaches of the Pacific. Shedding my sandals and t-shirt, I set up shop at the very edge of the beach, my back to the barrier dividing it from the boardwalk and recreation area. After taking a few minutes to enjoy the warmth, the sand, and the view of the Santa Monica mountains outstretched into the Pacific, I returned to my reading.
The scene is the 21st century martian colony of Chicken Pox Prospects. Left with nothing to give their daily lives any significance or meaning, the inhabitants of this hovel turn frequently to the escape that Can-D promises in order to find some level of happiness and fulfillment. As they gather to chew on the sticky substance, their consciousnesses are collectively transported into the idealist world of "Perky Pat" and her cookie-cutter barbie dream home world. Putting the misery of their bleak existence aside, if only for thirty or forty minutes at a time, they are free to do as they please in a world free from the hopelessness of reality. They know it won't last, so they rush to fit in as much experience and pleasure as they can before the effect wears off and the inevitable Can-D hangover sets in.
After about forty five minutes of reading, I found I had been joined on the barricades by two old ex-cons discussing the California penal system and its various publically accessible web sites. I listened in casually, hoping to catch some juicy details on their past -- or perhaps future -- transgressions. After the conversation turned toward which of the boardwalk vendors served the best/cheapest hot dogs, I realized this was a lost cause. Noting the time, I decided that my pale, midwest skin had endured enough ultraviolet for one afternoon. Gathering up my scattered posessions, I thought a while about Can-D and the draw of this easy escapism. I think, given the opportunity to chemically transport myself to a more idealized world, that would would look very much like a warm Sunday afternoon in southern California. Perhaps without the homeless gentlemen, and with cheaper-yet-higher-quality hot dogs, but southern California nonetheless. Is it possible that this whole trip is some fantastic dream or drug-induced hallucination? If so, I hope it doesn't wear off too quickly.