California Dreamin'

Before I begin my candid recollection of the trip to Malibu that just was, I would like to dedicate this entry to my dear friend Cindi, who will undoubtedly be the hottest woman ever seen in a wig. Obviously many of you have already helped donate to breast cancer research due to people close to you, but if you need an outlet, you can make a small purchase from this site and a portion will be donated to the cause: http://www.pinkribbonshop.com/index.asp?PageAction=VIEWCATS&Category=43.

The way I see it, there is a difference of about sixty degrees between heaven and hell. Granted, hell is reportedly hotter than Death Valley on its hottest day, but today hell goes about 8° above zero and inverts ones scrotal sac into his body. La and I boarded a plane in Long Beach at about 9pm last night, walking outside and up into the plane in the midst of a warm night. As we exited the plane this morning at about 530am, the 8° Boston air took my balls, squeezed the ever-loving shit out of them and carried me into the terminal where the blasting heat brought me back to my senses...thus ending our short-lived trip to paradise.

I'm choosing to relay the details of my trip in a 'best of' and 'worst of' theme. There really isn't too much in the category of 'worst of', but the trip had its moment of not-so-much-grandeur.

Best Elderly Person goes to La's faux grandfather Dick. Man, what a guy Dick is. For one, he's an absolute windbag. He'll tell you a story that should take no more than two minutes and you'll find yourself three scotches deep as he's saying 'where was I' for the tenth time. Yikes. His line of the weekend came on Sunday night, when he turned to me and asked "So, are you a mover and a shaker up there in Boston? Are you tops amongst your peers?" No joke, this is what he asked me. He also welcomed me into the family, propositioned La for $100 and invited me down to Puerto Vallarta to see his impressive home down there. Apparently Dick was a Navy man, as I learned from La's brother Tito. Quote from Tito on Sunday night at dinner: "Dick told me that one of his buddies in the Navy had crabs, and they used to pour brandy all over the guy's body and have crab races." AWESOME. Another quote overheard from this particular dinner tables came from family friend Bob Shipley, who remarked that "it's not the size of the dick, it's the size of the pussy." Dick followed this up by correcting him and noting that it's what you do with it that matters. Gross. GROSS.

Biggest Casualty occurred at the batting cages in LA, somewhere near UCLA. After deciding that it was a good idea to crank the machine up to 75mph from 55mph, La and I both lost a significant amount of skin from the popped blisters we got. I then lost a bet with La's 12 year-old brother Alexander, whom I didn't think would be able to catch up to a 75mph fastball. I gave him 10 tries, and he connected on the first one. And the next one. And so on. And I'm down $20. He asks to go double or nothing on 85mph, but I decline. Then we both proceed to knock the shit out of the ball at 85mph, as I ignore my mangled left hand. My advice to you men out there is to find a girl who likes to go the cages on a Saturday afternoon. Fucking glorious.

Best Meal was a tough one for me to decide on. I toyed with giving the top prize to In and Out Burger, where I feasted on a double-double with everything at 1030 am on Saturday. Then I thought that perhaps the prize should be awarded to the meal we had our first night there, when we ate sushi with Cindi and let it sink in that we were wearing flip flops and t-shirts in February. But the top prize must be awarded to the New York Steak at the Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades. The food was awesome, what we saw of the course where Lefty will try for two in a row this week was equally awesome, and watching La's grandmother Sally roll her eyes at Dick's incredibly long-winded stories was a riot. Did I mention that I had to borrow a blazer from Dick to wear to the club? He reminded me about a ten times that it was cashmere, asking me "doesn't that feel nice?" The thing had a fucking handkerchief in the pocket, for fuck's sake. But it was nice; the cashmere, that is.

Best Text Message Received appeared on Cindi's phone, sent from La's brother Ilan who was at the Westminster Dog Show in NYC: A Mastiff just took a dump in the ring. Enough said.

Best Overall Place must be Paradise Cove in Malibu. We had lunch there on Sunday, played football on the beach and just kind of hung out for a while (see photo above). Not to mention, a school of dolphins swam by and it was pretty awesome. If you go here, avoid the seafood omelette. La's pere said it was awful.

Most Disturbing Thing Said came from La's grandmother, Sally. La and her mom had gone wig shopping on Thursday in preparation for Cindi's impending hair loss...and they brought this wig to dinner. Enter Sally (80 years old), wearing the wig, asking Tito's best friend Taylor if she 'makes him horny, baby' in the Austin Powers voice. So fucking weird and distubring and funny and nauseating.

Ok, I'm getting sick of the theme shit, so I'm going to stop. Another incredible place we went to was this unreal house up in Malibu that belonged to some tv/low-budget film producer. It was called Stone Manor and it was the nicest place I've ever seen in my life. It's tough to do this place justice with words...I looked for the website, but it's not up. This fucking guy's house is over like 50 acres, all stone walls and shit, lemon trees, blood orange trees, grapefruit trees, butterflies everywhere and a sick adjustable hoop that I was throwing down on. Granted it was at 8', but I still pulled off a one-handed alley from Alexander, off the backboard G-Money-style. Sick.

La and I made our way to two shrines: the Lake Shrine (http://www.windmillworld.com/world/lakeshrine.htm) and the Serra Retreat (http://www.serraretreat.com/communities/retreats/serra/index.htm). If you're ever out there and you want to clear your head, both of these places are worth it. Plus, if you want to see the house where Sara Foster grew up, go the Serra Retreat and you'll have a bird's eye view of this mansion. Pretty amazing shit. Speaking of celebrities, we only saw two to speak of: Bill Maher and Matt Leinart. Nothing too exciting. Then again, who gives a shit about seeing celebrities. I'm much more impressed with the Pacific Coast Highway's offerings, but not the Malibu Fish Pier. I was really looking forward to our trip down there, thinking it would be all fun and games. And it was all fun and games; arcade games, skee-ball, funnel cakes, a ferris wheel and a bunch of Mexicans with dustpans and brushes, cleaning the pier. Look, I'm only saying 'a bunch of Mexicans' because there were a bunch of Mexicans. If there were a bunch of silver-top octogenarians cleaning the pier, I would have said so. But the place was just kind of crappy. I don't know what I was expecting, but I think it produced the only disappointment I had the whole time. Of course, when you're looking down on miles and miles of sandy beaches and million-dollar homes, a seedy amusement park isn't exactly a close second.

A final photo: La and I at the Long Beach airport. This is my first-ever attempt at taking a picture of myself by holding the camera out in front of me: