29 November 2005
Tales of 90265
I've been to Malibu a couple of times, though not since 1988 or so; but I have no reason to think it's changed much in the intervening years, and the QC Report confirms:
Malibu is a place with absolutely no sense of proportion. The scenery isn't just lovely; it's perfect except during the fires and mudslides, which are biblical in their scope. The discretionary income isn't merely large; it could fund malaria treatments in up to twenty developing nations which is something best not to dwell on as you window shop on the Coast Highway. The people aren't lovely; half of them are the physical definition of beauty the other half are the definition of what kind of bank statement it requires to breed with the physical definition of beauty.
During my brief stint as a Legal Californian, I almost always felt like a fish out of water, and not a particularly attractive fish at that, and it didn't help that the few people I actually knew out there apparently derived their entire awareness of Oklahoma from The Grapes of Wrath.
Still, I had to appreciate the place for its sheer gorgeous insanity:
Malibu is proudly inconvenient; it seems to derive perverse pleasure in having only two major routes of entry, both of which have been known to close due to the aforementioned fires or mudslides.
Me, I spent a lot of time farther down the coast, lost in the labyrinthine streets and coves of Palos Verdes. (This is one of the few times in my life when I actually bought lottery tickets on a semi-regular basis, perhaps hoping I could buy my way into California not the state, which had already issued me the appropriate identification, but the sheer idea of it.)
And I have no doubt I could relate to this:
[T]his is small-town parochialism at its worst. Small-town insularity wearing a six-carat yellow diamond for a Sunday afternoon soy latte.
I suppose I could have grown to hate the place. But someday I'll go back for a while, secure in the knowledge that I won't have to stay there. For now, my old California license plate (expired 5-90) has a place of honor which means, basically, that nothing else is hanging in front of it on my garage wall.
(Via The Happy Homemaker.)Posted at 10:58 AM to Almost Yogurt