Strapped with my new Nikon I set off to the farmer's market to get in some practice shots. I also bought a peach for a snack later, which was neither ironic nor practical.
This lovely woman is named Jennifer (Gennifer?), who I obliged in taking a picture of her festive holiday attire. I like the sheer pride in her face.With the sun in full force I rode down towards the obscenity of the Venice Boardwalk only to find the most magnificent display of human brawn and girth. drum roll...
Ladies and Gentleman may I present the Mr. and Mr. Muscle Beach Pageant.
Linking up with Sister and Nicholas we traveled onward to street festivals filled with girls touting red, white and blue tie-dye bikinis with American flags tucked god knows where. A band played surrounded by a sea of red cups and short-shorts.In flowing dresses and modest attire we stood out like sore thumbs. I blame Sister's fanny pack.
Scene changes to endless beer pong and cover bands. Jell-o shots and dudes smoking cigarettes. Word of warning: Avoid the lines for the keg and the bathroom. This is where the camera took a hiatus. What happens at the beach party...
Pretty soon the sea of cups turns into a typhoon of people. Mid-throw in a lack luster game of pong, the seas part for Wesley Snipes. A ripple of interest goes through the crowd.
I hear someone behind me, "When did he get out of jail?"
All was quickly forgotten in the same manner that I always walk away after setting food in the oven only to return to a burnt meal.
We lose friends who run off to other minor celebrity sitings and the crowd erupts in a chorus to "Laid" by James. People, we officially have a party. We schmooze, we drink, we leave.
There is a special kind of freedom found on a bicycle with the ocean wind on your face. A special kind of fear riding alongside cars in the traffic caused by a holiday. Exit stage right to a bike path.
Suddenly Sister turns into a decathlete cruising a top speed away from Nicholas and me. We attempt to talk, but mostly gasp out words trying to keep up. This is getting serious.
I'm on a fixed gear bike. This would be really beautiful if I could only catch my breath. This is when I remember my water bottle abandoned at the party.
I depart from the comfort of family to embark on what feels like Act II of a loaded day. This main character must travel this part of the journey alone. At least until I meet the other supporting cast.
Sun, surf, bridges built for bikes, the ocean sprawling out to the horizon.
Rendezvous with friends from across the channel. It was the type of party where you walk in and immediately feel like everyone is in on the joke except for you.
Then commenced my being shuttled around, back on to the bike to bit of my dismay, and quickly diverted through the beach festivities. Like a jailer on leave I was allowed short stops to speak to others with guided supervision. Not sure who was being protected from whom.
At that point of the day, everyone is dangerously drunk. As a good friend once said, "Here hold my drink, I'm going to set this off..."
People still scattered the sand throwing footballs and gravitating towards barbeques. The foam-house and slip-and-slide were thankfully long forgotten.
We wandered back towards food options, the kabobs deemed inappropriate.
Bellies full and the sun set deep beyond the horizon, we traipsed in the direction of the Pacific beers weighing down the boy's pockets. Nothing says American Independence like Chinese fireworks.
Red, gold, Aviva singing the National Anthem, glitter failing from the heavens, holding hands, parents clutching wide-eyed children.
This is about the time where words got a little looser and little ones started to drift off to sleep. Not sure if waking up without an hangover is a good or bad sign.
Happy Birthday 'Merica!!
