Muscle Beach

It is a human bazaar. a showcase for bizarre

humans. the freaks.

the shamans.

the warlocks and hustlers on

Venice Beach.

it has always been this way, hasn’t it?

we arrived at Venice Beach at noon.

“Let’s split up then meet back here at 1 p.m.,” my

father said.

my mother went south on the Boardwalk, my father

towards the beach with his camera and

Sophie and I walked north.

the skateboarders flew by.

we fought the crowds.

the tourists.

the sun was beating us down and

Sophie got a lemon icee.

we walked past the medicine men and

medical marijuana dispensaries.

at 1 p.m. we returned to the meeting spot.

my father was there but my mother was

nowhere to be found.

after ten minutes, we decided to go

look for her.

we approached Muscle Beach and there she was,

sitting on a bench staring at Lou Ferrigno

doing bench presses directly in front of her.

“I’m not surprised to find you here,” my father said.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sitting on the guys

biceps,” I said.

sometimes, mother could be so predictable.