Malibu Seafood

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This seaside spot is a vacation spot, a getaway spot, a show-me spot. I came down the 1,000 feet that separates us from sea level to get away from the cloud of heat pushing over from the valley.

A few good swells thump the beach, the traffic on PCH hushes past…  

...husshhh.... russhhh.... thump, ra-thump, thump....

This is damn near paradise, because paradise is never perfect. That's its great secret... it's the secret that paradise desperately wants to whisper in your ear…

...sshhhh... thump, ra-thump...

...but let's face it, we're far too drunk to hear it.

Salted Mexican beer, the good stuff, not that clear bottle garbage. Ahi seared rare and a trollop in a denim suggestion, bare legs and cowboy boots, ambles across the tarmac to the picnic tables. She moves like a baby giraffe. Another couple, stylish and stupid... 97° today and he's wearing a knit cap... she, a trucker's hat.

The Christians compare their satisfaction and the drunk girl teeters by, steadies herself on the guy she met last night. Men hold the babies like commodities, women clutch them like riches. A Shih Tzu sleeps on the back dash of a Chevy and a fat guy walks by ogling his tray mounded with deep-fried seafood like it was a pile of sex.

It's getting too dark to write. Some brave climber wound string lights up the 40 foot palms, but it's not enough, and Dad walks by with extra tartar.  I'll have another beer on the way up the hill. Enough paradise for one day…