balboa

I've decided to sit out the holidays this season. In fact, I've pretty much decided to sit out everything for a while. I seem to be lacking that certain lightness of spirit required to interact with my fellow human beings in a socially acceptable manner these days. I have got to stop flipping off every mechanical Santa that accosts me at the drugstore, as well as every would-be elf with a cellphone and a Christmas wreath, even if they are driving Hummers. And taking up two spaces. It is just not my place to discipline these people. I am currently not fit to walk among my fellow man.

But winter is beautiful in Southern California. The December light is strong, clear and golden, casting deep, beckoning shadows. As always when my spirit is restless and off-balance, I feel an urge to run toward the water. So I grabbed Turk, who was busy coaching various football, golf and I believe some cooking competitions from his headquarters on the couch, and headed west.

We wound up on Balboa Island in Newport Beach, which was busy getting ready for the annual Boat Parade. Always an equal-opportunity neighborhood, the good people of Balboa had bused in some snow for the underprivileged Children of Newport, many of whom had never seen snow and wouldn't have a chance to see it again, at least not until they hit the family ski lodge up in Big Bear. They shrieked and ran and pelted each other with snowballs, their flip-flops flapping merrily in the sun.

The area had been roped off with yellow crime scene tape, which seemed appropriate as much of the snow had turned to a heavy slush and some of the hurling balls looked lethal. An adorable 6 year old commanded her family of six, "Line up so I can hit you!" which seemed an emminently practical plan to me. Someday she will be President. Turk walked by with his hands in the air.

"Don't shoot! I come in peace!" he pleaded.

"Surrender monkey," I accused. The little girl laughed.

We wandered down to the waterfront, where we found further evidence of global warming in the form of marauding polar bears and confused sea lions. And penguins in search of a movie.

Even I had to smile at the penguins. And the sea otters. And the cotton-y snow on the roof. And the reindeer carousel. Well, everything, really. If there is one thing funnier than rich people, it's rich people decorating for Christmas. It's endearing.

When I found myself wanting to pet the sled dogs I knew it was time for a drink. We hopped back in the car and headed for Woody's, an old haunt not far away. The sun was dropping fast and promised a spectacular show. "Hurry," I insisted. "I don't want to miss the sunset."

We didn't see the sunset. I'd forgotten that Woody's faces east. So we sipped our pints contentedly, basking in the sun's reflected glory.

We watched as two young blondes cavorted gaily on the deck of a yacht just outside the bar, a nice-looking man smiling on with benign goodwill.

"I'll bet there are orgies on that yacht when this place closes," said Turk, a bit wistfully I thought.

"Want to stick around till closing and find out?"

"Nah. I'll be lucky if I can stick around till the end of Happy Hour."

We downed our beers and turned toward Harpoon Harrys in Sunset Beach, where the sunset and a cozy dinner by the fire awaited. I'm still not fit to go out in public. But I haven't flipped anyone off in days.