Let's Have a Beach Party

While Ruby was busy at school today, Rose and I decided to take a trip to Santa Monica for reasons of shopping, beaching, and to get out of the hostel. Previously, our days have consisted of sitting on our respective computers—Rose watching YouTube videos and I applying for jobs on Craigslist.

We took a guest with us. Andre, Ruby’s boyfriend, came to visit for a week. Since I did not mention him in the last blog, a little rundown of the one they call Andre:

1. Andre is of Russian descent. Meaning, he can’t be trusted.
2. He not so-secretly is in love with me. I can’t blame him.
3. He’s a smart kid. He scored some 5’s on his advanced placement exams.
4. He’s a stupid kid. Andre blew up a toilet in high school, got suspended, and was forced to do 70-some hours of community service. I commend blowing up the toilet, but not at the expense of doing voluntary work. That’s for losers.
5. He has a fear of falling. Not heights, mind you, but of falling. How ridiculous is that?
6. Activities and events Andre cannot comfortably partake in: skydiving, tripping and falling, jumping off a diving board, autumn.

I’ve just spent more time on Andre than anyone ever has in his life. Go me.

But hey, weren’t we going somewhere? Oh yeah, Santa Monica. Come on gang. Let’s go!

For those unfamiliar with California’s geography, Santa Monica is west of Los Angeles and sits on the waterfront. South of Santa Monica is Venice Beach, which will be discussed in greater detail at a later time in another blog. To paint a better picture of Santa Monica, let me use this analogy: if the Los Angeles County area were a high school, Venice Beach would be the hippie burnout clique, and Santa Monica would be the preppy kids with letter jackets. For the record, Korea Town would be Math Club.

Everything in Santa Monica looks new and expensive looking. We walked into a few stores that sold $80 t-shirts. My entire wardrobe costs less than one Santa Monica shirt. Even the farmer’s market set up there on our visit had too-expensive potatoes and psychedelic mushrooms for sale. At a newsstand, there was a $15 magazine.

While passing all the pretty people in their $500 casual wear, as they went into their boutique shops to buy more stuff I do not know how they can afford, I took pictures of bush sculptures that looked like dinosaurs on my cell phone. It would sure be great to share these with you fine people, unfortunately, my pain in the ass sister wouldn’t let me bring my digital camera to California, because there are so many wonderful things to take pictures of in Iowa that she simply had to keep it with her. I still don’t know how to upload pictures from my phone onto the world-wide-web, so no one gets to enjoy.

Besides shops and running backs, Santa Monica also has a pier with a ton of restaurants, attractions, and an amusement park. Andre talked big about riding the Farris Wheel, but since he’s Russian and can’t be trusted to do anything he says, he never did.

For lunch, we went to Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. This was exciting for me as much as something can be exciting for a cynical bastard that’s not impressed by anything, because I love the movie, Forrest Gump. If you and I are sitting around, flipping through channels on the television set, and we happen to stumble on Forrest Gump, no matter how far into the movie it is, we will sit and watch it until the credits roll. No exceptions.

Inside, Bubba Gump is just a glorified Applebee’s. Instead of a bunch of random crap on the walls, Bubba Gump just has Forrest Gump-themed crap on the walls. I’ve always wondered where these stores find their decorations. Is there a Chile’s catalog where they can choose which ornaments to hang on their walls or what? They usually represent the local color, so in Des Moines, you’ll have a Hawkeyes or Cyclones football jersey on display and then pictures of Sammy Davis Jr. and Marilyn Monroe on either side of them, but still, what about the Nicaraguan license plate and English Beefeater hat? Those have to come from a catalog.

Lunch was lunch. Andre dropped a piece of shrimp and peed his self, our waitress came around and gave us Forrest Gump trivia (I got 4 out of 5—later that night, I cut my inner thigh repeatedly with a dinner knife), and we left.

On our way out of the restaurant, I saw tourists taking their pictures in front of Bubba Gump as if they had reached their Mecca or Medina on some great pilgrimage. People, it’s a chain restaurant. There are over thirty locations around the world. Granted, that’s pretty sparse, all things considered, but you wouldn’t take a picture of yourself in front of the McDonald’s in Toluca, would you? No you wouldn’t. Your local Mom & Pop burger joint is more rare than Bubba Gump. Take pictures of that.

I really wanted to go swimming. The Pacific Ocean is right there, teasing me, but no one had swimming suits, so the Pacific Ocean escapes my scissor kick this day, but not for long.

Returning to the hostel, Rose and I continued our daily routine. Andre did something no one cares about, and thus ends another underwhelming blog entry. Stay tuned for more.