Last weekend, while my bride-to-be attended the first stop on her bridal shower tour, I got to go on a little excursion: I had lunch at the Redondo Beach Pier. Years ago, I used to ride my bike from my home in Gardena to the pier--round trip, about 20 miles; but we used to ride up and down the strand as well--and this was back before a good chunk of the Pier burned down. Going back (with my son, my brother, and his two sons) brought back a lot of memories. The good kind. The kind that make you stand and smile, even if the air around you smells like fish and seawater.
Nothing's ever completely as you remember it. The video arcade is gone (aren't they all?), the Fun Factory (a midway of sorts, with rides and games) has become much less vibrant, parts of the beach are no longer accessible, and many of the small businesses have become more . . . commercialized. The street performers aren't there anymore, but most of the fishermen, including the ones who live in the boat slips by the fish markets, are. The markets still have tanks and tanks of crabs and lobsters--all live, all really cool--and a couple of the smaller food places are still there.
When I was in high school, our Humanities class actually did a project right on the beach next to the Pier (we had to create relics for a mock archeological dig, then "bury" them, then dig up another group's project and interpret it--we actually hung ours from the Pier itself). While doing that project, a year before the Pier fire, a couple of joggers went by--one of whom I recognized: Tom Sullivan, the blind entertainer. There's a marathon named for him in that area every year. (I met him several years ago at a book signing event.)
All in all, it was enough to provoke two feelings in me: one, I really enjoyed my teenage years (sure, I had some of the typical teenage angst issues everyone goes through, but I'm pushing forty and I can see past that); two, I could really enjoy living in a beach town (spending a lot of my youth in Redondo, Manhattan, and Hermosa Beaches, I thought it then, too). Even better, I got to show my sixteen year old son around one of my old haunts. I know he'll have his own memories and his own nostalgia--at least, I hope he will--but it was nice to share some of my memories with him.
Really good memories.
Observations, rants, and plausible
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
The Village
I AM WRITING!
My Screenplay -- Draft Three
I'm currently reading:
On my Kindle 2
I'm listening to:
iTunes Radio
I'm driving:
The Honda FCX Clarity
