mace

After yesterday's crazy tramp episode, i now have my very own bottle of pepper spray to keep me safe. To be honest, i'm more afraid of myself owning a bottle of liquid that could cause excruciating pain. someone might look at me funny in the supermarket. a passing dog might not wag its tail appropriately..crikey..watch out california.

i am living in a pea green bungalow called Seaside. It's off a street called Younglove. My housemates are all outgoing college guys who talk with that laid back californian slang. They do summer school, go running, drive cars, climb trees, eat pizza, hang out at shops waiting for the girl they fancy to notice them, listen to lo fi. One of them is armenian and his girlfriend's name is Anoush, the name which i'd have been given if my father had had a choice.

People smile at me when they cycle past. Shop assistants want to know how i am, why i'm here. Whats with my accent...why do i say cheers so much, why am i in america? How the fuck did i meet Jeff? Tokyo, that's cool, they say.

Sitting on the wooden porch at Seaside, i can see the mailbox is empty because the little red flag isn't turned up. The doors really don't have letterboxes. Police are everywhere, rolling about on hench motorbikes. Apparently it's a bigger offence to jaywalk (cross the street at a red light) than to smoke weed here.
Every morning the surroundings are fogged up and cloudy with a damp mist which has completely evaporated by about 12. And then its time for coffee, iced or not. And the beach. Or smoking another cigarette on the porch.

Restaurants close early. Streets become no-go areas after dark. Colourful homeless people with guitars/wheelchairs/trolleys mince about looking for spare change or an ear to listen to their tall tales of travel and war and illegal activity. I guess everyone has a story to tell, even the 200 stupid idiot girls i walked past outside the cinema who'd slept there just so they could see Twilight 2 when it opened. Lame.

Yesterday i walked along the wharf (pier) right to the end. While Jeff works 8-6 i have all the time in the world to meander about, thoughtful, thoughtless. Small gaps in the wharf's wooden slatted floor reveal huge orange starfish clinging to the seaweed smothered supports. The constant echoed barking from below tells of Elephant Sealions with slippery grey skin and unnatural looking mouths. Sometimes you see their streamlined yet clinically obese bodies slip past in the water. Beyond them and beyond the wharf are groups of young surfers splashing to the nearest buoy on body boards. Or they could be lifeguards in training since they all wear red shorts/costumes. Like teen baywatch. Their ungraceful splashes disturb the surf which is otherwise as smooth as polished brass, tin foil, rose petals, cellophane.