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Since the first incursion that hit Hermosa Beach way back on that Thursday morning, there was a growing freakish undercurrent that demanded an escape outside of El Lay County: a wet & sloppy venture to Catalina Island (which, to our dismay, still falls under the jurisdiction of El Lay County).
We weren't, though, the types to "ixnay" an entire plan so poorly conceived.... (Looking back at departure times, however, and at transportation methods to Long Beach, perhaps we should have considered the day trip a little more closely.)
But what the hell??? Damn the torpedoes & full speed ahead! (With the exception of Gary & Megs who turned down the offer of paradise for other reasons -- and it wasn't cause they wanted to "hook up" in private.... Gary had spent the previous day -- The Party -- with his dad at the Dodger's game and had a blistering hangover; plus, he & Megs had an early flight back which they would possibly miss if they had taken the Catalina Cruise.... Boy, do you bastards have some filthy minds!)
And so, with only Robyn's car to take us from the Sea Sprite on Hermosa Beach at 5:30 a.m. to her apartment in Redondo Beach (where her brother's car keys lay waiting for insertion and eventual ignition into his car -- which also awaited us outside her apartment), we piled in. (Please read this as eight people in a Geo Prism -- Andi & Karl & Robyn in front; Simon & Dave & Pino & Kirstin & Lana scrunched in the back -- driving four or five intensely bloody painful miles to the much-worshipped Davemobile.)
Still, we made it with a minimum of bruises and bruised egos... splitting between two cars... following Sepulveda (the "One"; the PCH; the "Highway to Tacoland"... nevermind: you weren't there years back for that piece of rock 'n' roll history in San Antone... ) till we hit the 710 that guided us into Long Beach.... And then we were there: the Queen Mary poking her stacks out of the fog; the Catalina Express at the next dock wheezing like a 78-year-old man dragging on his last unfiltered Lucky Strike....
And we drank the mimosas and the Heinekens that were offered us on the ferry during the 23-odd mile journey to Catalina, wishing our dear friend Robyn a strong stomach as she searched out a "quiet place" where she could vomit.... But being the brave girl she is, she held back the puke, in search of the perfect breakfast on Catalina.
My Sweet Lord ("Hari, Hari")... did we ever find it....
THE PANCAKE COTTAGE
Oh, by the way... (boy fucking howdy!)... what a brilliant & brilliantly wonderful damned breakfast they serve (far better than any b'fast you've ever seen, eaten, or had the pleasure to pass many hours later). Ignore all those blueberry and strawberry waffles: just go for the hash browns plate (onions, bell peppers, fresh bacon & two -- count 'em, two cheeses -- all griddled and spatula'd till they was all types of crispy and golden brown).
And then (as if we had any doubts that this was gonna be yet another bloody great day), we blazed a full-bellied trail to the nearest GC stand (manned and "wo-manned" by some groovy locals), where those in attendance agreed to take our hard-earned cash ($30 per hour -- cash only) in return for use of their Yamaha golf carts (four people per cart -- maximum of three hours)....
And then (yeah, I know I use that phrase too much -- piss off, you editorializing bastards!), the best weekend that any group of friendly freaks (or freakly friends) could ever have possibly imagined suddenly got just a little bit better. (As if that were possible [and you've probably read that before, too, haven't you, you dirty little wannabes]....)
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