Life’s A Beach – then you die

Santa Monica and Venice Beach, as iconic names, are the destinations of choice for seaside fun in the LA sun… to outsiders. But locals know better. Locals know South Bay.

Being so famous Venice and Santa Monica attract a swamp of tourist-trap tackiness, that festers into grim seediness and even base criminality (linger on Venice Beach as the sun sets, to see the kooks come out and the sinister mood harden, in minutes… actually, don’t). Such edginess is sold as bohemian style, and is certainly something to experience, but frankly it ain’t too pleasant.

Any distasteful oozing down the California coast is broken at Marina Del Rey, by the marina itself, which dams back the effluent atmosphere to the north, from the affluent feel below. Its a boundary reenforced by the noisy LAX airport, Chevron’s hulking oil refinery (their second – hence the name of the immediate area, ‘El Segundo’ (‘The Second’)) and Hyperion’s sewage treatment plant (yes, there is SOME effluent in South Bay). Not exactly stereotypical symbols of idyllic beach life, these brutes act as gate-keepers and camouflage, deterring those who know no better from pushing through to the oasis beyond: South Bay.

The coastal community of South Bay comprises the ‘beach cities’ of Manhattan, Hermosa, Redondo and Palos Verdes. Relatively unknown internationally they’re more residential than tourist magnet, and therein lies their appeal. People live there. They take lasting pride. Consequently the South Bay beach cities are clean, fresh, healthy, relaxed, friendly and safe. That said, each has its own individual flavor, distinguishing it from its neighbors.

PV

Palos Verdes, furthest south, sports a craggy natural coastline more akin to Dorset than California. From its jagged cliffs (backdrop to many ‘Pirates Of The Caribbean’ scenes) roll wild dramatic hills dotted with luxurious estates, golf courses and stables (this being horse country). Old austere wealth is embedded in exclusive Palos Verdes… and it shows.

Below it, Redondo acts as gateway to the north. Pebbled rock-pool beaches give way just south of its famous pier to the wide flat sandy expanses that mark all the other South Bay beach cities (and indeed Venice, Santa Monica, and beyond). That pier, the marina, and their surrounds buzz gently with acoustic music and fine dining (there’s nowhere better to mallet a fresh crab). It’s tranquil, but livelier in Redondo than in the Palos Verdes hills above.

Hermosa is livelier still… and then some! This is where the kids come to play, be it beach volleyball (of ALL standards) by day, or drinking and dancing in the thumping bars by night. Music blares, alcohol flows, yet it stays clean, healthy and safe (all the ingredients exist for Hermosa nightlife to match that of a British town-centre’s, but it thankfully doesn’t – aggression is rare). Sure it’s a tad frat boy, but Hermosa is sexy and fun.

Badger Beach - far away in time

Then there’s Manhattan Beach, more mature than Hermosa, but still with a fresh thriving restaurant, coffee-shop and bar scene. It’s slick, yet relaxed (getting dressed up generally involves picking out your smartest flip-flops). The laid back feeling is further influenced by all the surfers drawn by its world-class waves, particularly to the El Porto north end, where dolphins regularly ride the breakers amongst their human kindred spirits.

Critics say it’s too conservative and self-satisfied. Too Tommy Bahama! But life is good in South Bay. It’s understated, subtle and largely hidden from world view… but good, really good. Hence so many celebrity families settle there, particularly those of LA’s high-profile sports teams. South Bay is where you live when you’ve made it.

And that’s what dawned on the badger with a pen… after eighteen perfect months in Manhattan Beach, living the kind of dream you strive all your life to enjoy, once you’ve ‘made it’. Only the badger had skipped a rather important step… he hadn’t ‘made it’.

He’d arrived in Los Angeles with a pen, and a dream of writing movies, and was immediately seduced by the spectacular beaches, bikini-clad roller-blading girls, those dolphins and the wonderful warmth of welcoming new friends. His life was a beach… but he didn’t deserve it… not yet… he hadn’t ‘made it’… in fact he hadn’t even tried. To do so he had to move inland, to get amongst the guts of where it’s at. To where the movies were made.

…so with renewed determination the badger, eventually, packed his pen…

…he was going to Hollywood.

Badger Beach – far away in time

What’s a 6’3 walking talking badger to do, when set to relocate from his small European island to a new life in America’s most glamorous yet intimidating city… with nothing but a pen?

Internet dating, that’s what.

To engage his prospective new environ, the first thing the badger did when Los Angeles arose as a possibility, was to sign up on Match.com. Whereupon, to his surprise, conversational floodgates opened, and all manner of hints, tips and helpful advice rained down upon him. LA ladies love to talk… and there are lots of them.

The first big question thrown to the throng was “Where should I live?”. Los Angeles is huge. It’s enormity can only truly be appreciated by flying over it, to see its streets and ‘hoods go on and on ad infinitum below… only Sao Paulo rivals it for sheer surface area of intense urban sprawl. Furthermore, this endless expanse that outsiders regard as the ‘city of LA’ is actually LA county, comprising almost ninety smaller ‘cities’ (equivalent to British ‘boroughs’) compacted together. Each of these ‘cities’ has its own distinct flavor, often contrasting markedly with that of even its closest neighbors. Choose your city rashly and life can be unpleasant. This was the advice of the internet dating collective, who also nominated cities that might suit a single white badger from far, far away. One name came up repeatedly: Manhattan Beach.

Such was the badger’s naivety he hadn’t even appreciated Los Angeles HAD beaches. Sure he’d seen classic beach movies like ‘Surf Nazis Must Die’, ‘Point Break’ and ‘Surf School’, but never made the connection with their Los Angeles setting. Sure on hearing names like ‘Malibu’ or ‘Venice Beach’ he formed images of slo-mo lifeguards bounding through salt spray or big shiny grunters pumping iron on hot seaside sand, but hadn’t realized these iconic locales were sub-cities of Los Angeles. And sure, if he’d looked at a frickin’ map he’d have seen the sea, a whole Pacific Ocean of it, right there alongside Los Angeles, as a pretty solid indication that beaches would feature. But, the badger was kinda dumb. So when the cyber-harem recommended a Los Angeles beach as a potential new home, he was surprised… and excited.

Naturally then, when his prospective employers at the final interviews threw him a rental Mustang to “Go see if Los Angeles is the sorta place you might wanna live”, the first name his paw pumped into its GPS was ‘Manhattan Beach’. Bouncing along to “California Dreamin’” he headed back towards LAX Airport, veering off the jam-packed 405 freeway, through the sleepy hollow of Playa Del Rey, where he followed instructions to “turn left at the lights”, up a slight rise to a brow, and over… to the flash of a standstill moment in which he fell instantly and irreversibly in love… suddenly before him was THE most spectacular beach he’d ever seen: an exaggerated expanse of white sand met by rolling surf undulating in from miles of crystal shiny sea shimmering flat out to a distant blue sky horizon… with not a soul on it. Such a beautiful day, aside such a burgeoning city, this vision of paradise had sprung before him… and was empty… but for the odd swaying palm and a string of silent pelicans gliding overhead. The Badger was smitten. California had bitten. Was this the sorta place he might wanna live? Oh yes!

According to the GPS Manhattan Beach lay further along that road, just beyond that beach. But drawing closer all he could see was an LAX perimeter fence, a metal monstrosity industrial oil refinery, and the apparently open pits of the municipal sewage works. Had the previous glimpse of perfection been a cruelly deceptive mirage? Had the internet ladies been laughing at him all along?

Holding his nose while gunning the gas, the badger took out his pen… one way or another a story lay ahead in that ‘Manhattan Beach’… and he was determined to write it.

Enter The Badger

On October 28, 2009, US Immigration let a 6’3 walking talking British badger slip into the country carrying little more than a pen and a sense of destiny.

That destiny was to write, particularly to write “movies”. The instinct to throw words onto page creating life through language had always been there, through countless school-books of illegible scrawl, hours spent happily editing relatives’ dull college assignments, and even the odd published magazine article. A parallel love of movies grew through the early teens, when video-cassettes (and a dog called Gyp) were constant and sole companions, providing all the emotional development a growing yet insular lad might need, from the magic of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, the sage lessons of ‘The Sure Thing’, ‘Withnail & I’ and ‘Porkys’, to the wonder and entertainment of ‘Jaws’, ‘Big Trouble In Little China’ and ‘The Cannonball Run’.

These movies, the more glamorous ones anyway, were made and more importantly written, in “Hollywood”… apparently. To a naive pup in rural England the name was mythical, represented by nine wooden letters on a hillside in a galaxy far, far away (for all he knew). Sure, he’d seen countless movies about the movies, like ‘The Player’, ‘Sunset Boulevard’, ‘The Big Picture’, ‘Sunset’ and ‘The Last Tycoon’, but like the planet Tatooine in ‘Star Wars’, Hollywood may just have been a figment of the imaginations it nurtured… for all he knew.

Dreams fade over time. If you let them. As life, and its practicalities, pervade. The badger studied business, took a responsible job, traveled the world (but not yet to California, where he’d learned with passing interest that Hollywood was), buried faithful friend Gyp, let his hair grow the colour that badger hair grows, and read Paolo Coelho’s “The Alchemist”.

But the universe conspires to help pursue even a dormant dream. Fate would lend the badger a hand, if the badger really wanted deep down to achieve his destiny. That’s what Coelho had said.

And Coelho had been right (wise old pompous Paolo). In the turn of an inebriated business conversation the following words were spoken “Hey I’ve got an open position in Los Angeles. Would you ever consider re-locating?” Time stood still. For an instant. It had taken over forty years for destiny to lose patience and in fourteen pivotal words to turn from hunted to hunter. Opportunity was suddenly knocking so hard that the door had come clean off it’s hinges. This was no subtle omen or gentle hint, fate was screaming in the badger’s face. Before glasses were drained the deal was done. Destiny no doubt breathed an exasperated sigh of relief.

Shortly thereafter, once house was sold, possessions shed, loved ones kissed goodbye, and visa granted, a 6’3 walking talking British badger slipped into America… with a pen, and with a destiny.

This blog aims to document the badger’s journey. To see a dream fulfilled, chart the obstacles and distractions along the way (I mean, it’s been eighteen months since he arrived, WTF has been occurring?) and in itself provide additional motivation to just do it.

So join the journey… lend your support, your derision, your interest or your ridicule… it’ll all help. And hey, it might be a fun ride… and who knows, there may just be a Hollywood movie in it…