Whenever I need a change of pace from the fungal infection of boredom, I just call him up on the hotline. This man, this suicidal graduate student shooting up 24 hours this semester, always seems to make just enough time for a trip into the greater LA area. While we usually just watch a movie and eat at the same stylized 50's harem of a restaurant, things with him get quirky now and again.

One time we were sitting on the Top O' Topanga, a look-out point on (you guessed it) the top of Topanga Canyon overlooking the San Fernando Valley. The lights sparkled like waves passing over a smoggy ocean, circa some 1930's Jazz club in New Orleans, brilliant orange and off-green streetlights twinkling against the velvet darkness and low tones of red and blue tower lights. While other people were investigating dark places of their own, the Captain and I talked about current issues in education. Some heavy panting here, a good point about race reparations there, bits of intellectual groping thrown in for kicks; we were happy as clams.

Now the problem with Top O' Topanga is that the state recently made it a park, making it illegal to stop there after nightfall. Like the other heavy-breathing fun seekers, we didn't pay the 'no parking' signs much mind. Retiring to the car for comfier seats than the wooden benches, though, a large jeep rolled in and barred the entrance, trapping all of us. You could tell from the way he walked that the Highway Patrol guy was getting way over his quota with the gambit of lusting hornets that regularly stayed up here after dark. Receiving our customary slap on the wrist for passionate conversation, we sped away back down into the valley.

Yesterday with him ended up interesting and quirky, though it started off routine enough. I'd done my research the other night, came to the conclusion that late August is the worst month for movies. Webpage after webpage I felt like Hollywood was emptying its multi-million dollar septic tanks into feeding troughs and calling it nutrient-enriched spring water. The Captain and I met and decided 'Igby Goes Down' was a decent choice and left for it. Now I like caustic movies with partner swapping, drug-use and murder, but it didn't resolve the plot points.

After that I bitched about being unemployed and how much of a pain getting a research job was. Daniel nodded his head and didn't say much. We just waited in his car for awhile, waiting to be more hungry in front of a pizza place. The dinner there wasn't bad, but we both seemed down. His family has been trying to make decisions about what to do with some older relatives. He suggested going by the beach, though, which seemed like fun.

An hour later after we'd weaved through Topanga Canyon and my blood had chilled and thawed a few times with his driving, we got to the Santa Monica pier. The renovated amusement park set up on it glowered as we passed by. Cruising crowded intersections we observed all traffic signs, looking for the rare and elusive beast of free beach-side parking.

The space we found was only 7 blocks to the beach this time. Score. Every manner of leathered young thing, tourista, intellectual hemp head and foreigner was mixing it up along the streets, moving across the open air malls and shops like a laid-back imitation of NYC. The Captain never cared for the atmosphere in Santa Monica, but then I always liked people watching.

The beach was quiet, an ironic contrast to the blazing stadium lights that surrounded the cars in the 8 dollar parking lot (hah, fools). Mmm, naked sand between my toes as a thousand mouths screamed up from the tiny beach fissues, silky and twisted. We were surrounded (lightly garnished, really) by heavy-breathing couples again; only occasionally annoying. I laid on my back mostly; the Captain sat up. The moonlight flashed a dull jade on the murky water. I scanned around to the distant hills at the other end of the crescent bay. So many small lights, like campfires softly burning, growing in intensity around the crescent until the dappled palm trees and luminous street lamps were just up above me.

As we were walking back a homeless black man in his forties was yelling for change. He looked up at me and asked for cash. I said I literally didn't have anything on me, so he said to give him a handshake instead. So I walked over and there I stood, shaking his weak hand as I looked him in the eye, seconds passing by. He told me that I was a good man, oh yes, a good man...either that or I was on something. We both smiled and I returned to the Captain, feeling decent and then all of the sudden completely drained. It made for a good nap later.

I miss the Captain. Good things always happen with him. Well, except the heavy-breathing fun seekers, but they follow us around anyway.

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