I sometimes love and want to not surf. When the skies open up, in Los Angeles, and pour down their fury, filling the Pacific with toxins. And I sit sipping cafĂ© au lait at CafĂ© Tropical, in Silver Lake, feeling like a surfer (because I surfed yesterday) and looking like a surfer (because my face is tanned, hair blonde) and acting like a surfer (because I call the waiter â€śbraddahâ€ť). It is sometimes tres rad to not surf.
And after coffee with milk I sometimes love to go shopping. I shuffle my Globe Motleys down the rain-slicked sidewalks of Santee Alley, downtown. I study knock off Tom Ford sunglasses and push past pushy Mexicans. They donâ€™t mean to be pushy, it is simply their culture. Mexico City has a population of 9 million people! I watch poor Chinese women try on knock off Louis Vuitton bags and laugh. The irony!
And after shopping I sometimes love to go and watch Rihanna perform at Nokia LA Live, next to the Staples Center. Moisture glistening on all the neon. I am the only man my age and young African-American girls stare but I smile, wink and nod. A small group of homosexuals smile, wink and nod toward me but I frown, stare and shake my head â€śnoâ€ť toward them.
And after singing along to â€śGood Girl Gone Badâ€ť and â€śFire Bombâ€ť (what a show!) I sometimes love to go to the Chateau Marmont. I sit where John Belushi used to before speedballing and drink down caipiruvas while staring into space. Then I wander Sunset, precipitation dropping dropping dropping, until reaching The Viper Room. I sit on the curb where River Phoenix used to before convulsing and smoke a clove. And I stare at the sky. I probably wonâ€™t surf tomorrow either.
Where Iâ€™m going I donâ€™t need my brakes. Canâ€™t wait to see your face. When your front windows break and I come crashing through. The lovers need to clear the road.