Santa Monica is like one layer of the social layer cake (or should that be fruitcake) that was my previous home: Sea Point in Cape Town. In Sea Point, Millionaires live side by side or on top of Middle class yuppies, Congelese refugees sharing a room among five, waiters, models, “models” (the sexy kind), restaurantuers above the shop their family’s clung to for years, old folks who remember when the area had more bagel places and fewer cracklords, well-shod cracklords, trendies, families, single-moms in one-beds, street kids and homeless people… icafes, corner cafes, malls, shelters, churches, bars, whore-houses, schools, late night barber shops, early morning yoga clubs… tumbling over one another for your attention.
Two hundred feet from my (former) poorly-serviced Sea Point apartment with perfect 180 degree sea views... this beach.
Santa Monica just seems to house the super-rich and not-so-much house the super-poor, who trundled their trolleys to their doorways, wrapped themselves in plastic and blanket cocoons and passed out by the time the sun set and I emerged from Dinner #1 of sushi for a walk on the promenade before Dinner #2 at a jazz club.
This picture's for you, Joey and Ben, in honour of all those nights I crashed in your dinasaur room.
Oh, and this one too. Just remember, God only put it there to trick you.
Virgin Mary stars in the Christian Money-Shot
Speed Rabbit (a “jazz” trio whose shared credits include playing with Bright Eyes and er… the UK’s Duffy) sounded bit more like ‘Lude Rabbit most of the time. They mostly seemed to be bored or faking it as they noodled and doodled and jammed their way through their dinner set to a happy and talkative crowd. The food at Angels Piano Bar (a “boasy” place, apparently) was decent though (fresh herbs on a freshly-cooked flat-bread go a long way in this culture of instant cheap food), and my date and I had a cool time time imagining their life – a sort of jazz version of Flight of the Concords. I can be mean that way.
Cancer, how quaint? One day we'll be preserving the shitty tags that are now all over this sign. Humanity never stops being weird as hell.
Santa Monica is a careless mix of perfectly clean, perfectly manicured things and the kind of decay only rampant capitalism breeds. The streets are paved with gold, but if you’ve ever tried to pick up a gold paving stone and run away with it when the cops are approaching, you’ll know how useful THAT is.
In 1928 this wasn't quaint, it was just a shop. Still I doubt this graffiti really deserves to be there. It's not exactly Banksy. It's not even those puffy letters that, while monotonous, are at least hard to do.
The cops, by the way, drive WHITE cars there. In Orange (and I think in LA) they drive black ones. It’s important to know these things. Specially if you’re planning to light up a cigarette which is illegal in most of the city. Go cops!