I Totally Burned One at Venice Beach

And by "one" I don't mean a big fat blunt, even though those were in abundance after the bargain-basement 40 dollar evaluation deeming you "anxious" enough to need some medical weed. What I  burned was a 3-inch wide strip of skin on the back of my neck and over my shoulders because I was too moronic to put sunscreen on that part. Scott and I took a long walk in the high-noon sun so that I could have the obligatory Venice Beach experience. He says he can't count how many times he's taken people there. Everyone who came to visit him in L.A. in 20 years wanted to see certain things, and this was one of them.

Honestly, it was just depressing as hell. Not the Venice Beach you see in movies, teeming with muscle men doing their weight-lifting parlor tricks while friendly sparkling freaks roller skate by. It seemed to me that it was filled with anger and desperation. Many of the vendors of crappy art were surly and pushy (Surly and Pushy were dwarves #8 and #9, I believe) and there was nothing happy in the air. Except for the occasional cloud of pot smoke.

I had been smart and had smeared SPF 50 sunscreen on my face and the front of my neck. Just as we were starting our obligatory walk out to the waves to put our feet in and look for a few shells, we contemplated getting the Coppertone out of the rental car and glomming up. But no. That would have been too reasonable. Instead, we stood there with our pasty midwestern necks exposed and ended up with not only the worst sunburns of our lives, but the most stupid looking ones. Bright pink-red strips painted perfectly around our necks and shoulders like some idiotic fraternity hazing ritual. Yeah, dude, you have to go to classes all week stylin' your redneck half-dickey.

This is what I get for making fun of the toolbags who were riding the rented segways and staring in amazement at the dope sign.