So I had a really weird weekend. On Friday night I got a late ride out to the Orange Line station, then cruised it in to hang out with Manu for the night. It was a good night, I got to check out the Roberto Alomar show and catch up with Todd, Gian, Scott, Will and Kevin. It was nice to see all those improvy folk again, and afterwards I met up with Manu for some Gyros and then we watched a new episode of Monk and Psyche. Monk was good, Psyche, as usual, was awesome. It’s up there on my list of great TV shows worth watching. I passed out on Manu’s couch mildly drunk, and mildly hookah buzzed. Happy times.

The following day we woke up late and Manu headed to Agoura to finish working on his new coffee table he’s building, and I wandered around Glendale looking for Gamers. At some point I actually almost died, I was talking or texting to Christian, I forget which, and suddenly the minivan at the crosswalk I was crossing, infront of me, began to rev its engine. I paused and looked curiously at the guy driving the thing, and he had a look of horror on his face, and suddenly he just lurched out into the middle of oncoming traffic. Had I not stopped walking, I would have gotten obliterated. Miraculously, he somehow avoided getting mauled by oncoming traffic and either decided he wanted to live or regained control of his vehicle. Then I hung out for game stuff and Frank Romeo gave me a ride into Santa Monica on Saturday night.

After checking my online bank balance and discovering that I had exactly 10 dollars to my name I knew the rest had to be calculated carefully. I got some Coffee from some VERY unhappy to be serving me waitresses at the Dennys off of Lincon, which I highly recommend you never go to, and then after about an hour or so, left there, walked around for a bit, then walked into the Norms, right across the street, for some more coffee and some pancakes. I then stumbled out of the Norms and my hoboness truly kicked in.

First I’ve been deathly ill the past several weeks, secondly, I drank like 16 cups of coffe, and third, when I’ve been sick, going from warm comfy temperatures to cold ones literally make me gag. I have no clue why, but there I was, stumbling down Santa Monica Blvd at 6 AM, coughing and occasionally leaning over to Ralph, wearing an oversized huge green jacket and carrying a hugely oversized knapsack with a buncha junk in it. I truly felt as though I had transcended into devine hobo-tude.

I made it down to the Santa Monica Pier, and wandered there for a while. It’s REALLY cool at 6:30 because it’s still dark and just starting to get light, so there’s no one around, and all the lights are still on. It gives a very cool and kindof abandoned look to everything. Then at the end of the pier I got to just sit and listen to the waves and sealions and look at the moon reflecting off of very still, very dark water. It was pretty awesome. There were also some weird art students or who knows what setting up crosses in the sand. There were a bazillion of them.

When I had sortof nodded off a bit, sitting at the end of the pier and listening to the waves, and some guy randomly wandered up and started eyeballing me, my hobo-senses told me it was time to move on, so I left the bench I was on which he immediatly laid down on, and headed down onto the beach itself. It was pretty awesome walking the beach in the pre-dawn, and there were actually a fair number of people sacked out along the beach (there was a tent, and maybe 5-7 people within a mile of the pier to the north). I wandered along and stopped into the men’s room which was pretty much the most horrifying part of the whole ordeal. Mostly because there were a bunch of stalls with no doors on them and little concrete walls. It looked like some sort of horrible POW camp bathroom. I just took a leak and headed down to the beach (hey I’d been standing near the ocean for HOURS… what do you want from me?)

Then I just threw out the towel I had gotten from Fromeo, laid down with my head on my bag and went to sleep. It was pretty warm, the sound of the water was relaxing and there wasn’t anyone there to bother me. Then as the sun came up I warmed up more and drifted in and out of sleep as people jogged or trundled by in the early morning. Hands down the best part was when I noticed someone walk up the beach wearing black jeans which were soaking wet, carrying his shoes and wearing a backpack with no shirt. The guy was in his mid 50’s and he wandered over towards me. I had a hat and sunglasses on but aparently he still managed to figure out I was awake, or was just super creepy, because he walked up and stood about 3 feet to my left.

After a few moments he looked down at me and said “I am from Russian”

To which I replied “Oh”

He looked at me for a moment and said “They Bite?”

I looked at him curiously for a moment, then he took his right arm and clamped it down on his left in the universal sign for ‘shark attack’ I suppose.

“What?”

“They bite?” he asks, making the same motion and pointing towards the ocean.

I grudgingly sit up to see what the hell the guy is talking about, and right there, about 10 feet from the shore, are a trio of dolphins splashing around. We watched them for a bit and looked at me again and said a word in Russian which I assumed to be ‘shark’ and he made the motion again and asked “They Bite?”

Aparently my hoboness had translated into ‘Sea Sage’. I shook my head at him “No dude, they’re dolphins. They don’t bite” I shook my head no and made the bite sign. “They dont bite… they’re dolphins”

He was quiet for a moment, watching them, then he repeated “Dolphin” with a crazy thick Russian accent and I nodded and he nodded. So he dropped his backpack, dropped his pants, and clad in the smallest speedo I’ve ever seen, and I played Water Polo in High School, he ran out and splashed into the water. I watched dumbfounded as the dolphins swam off, and he stood there knee high in the water for a bit and then came back, collected his pants and went on his way.

I went back to sleep again, and then the planet said ‘Hey, it’s time to wake up’ by way of sending a crashing wave of water cascading up my legs. I managed to save my bag and the computer inside but my towel and feet got soaked, so I carried around a soaking wet towel for the rest of the day. Yum.

I then wandered down Venice Boulevard, taking in the sights. I sat at the world famous muscle beach for a while and lamented how downhill THAT project has gone. Watched the crazy mind blasted nutjobs and crazy old drunks wander around, and eventually made my way over to Davy’s place where I crashed for a few nights. All in all, it was an awesome, if not discordian, experience, and I totally earned my hobo-merit badge.