March 13th, 2003 Gulliver, Dan, and Josh dropped me off back at Iseman's in Manhattan Beach and headed back up to San Franciso. I have to imagine there were a few comments to the effect of, "Is there anything phyiscally or mentally wrong with him?" or "Why did he keep threatening to throw up?".
The crew at 116 Manhattan Ave are the most gracious hosts ever. They literally have a fraternity-like house that is full of couches, beer bottles, and hot women calendars (there's also a Swingers movie poster, which every bachelor pad just has to have). Their three story house is one block from the beach. From the sun deck on the third floor, you can see the ocean clearly and is very convenient for evaluating the waves for surfing each morning. George and Iseman have lived here for a couple years and they constantly have house guests. Some weekend mornings, after an impromptu after hours party, they wake up to find every couch carrying a body. The next weekend, Findlay and Sprague came down to escape the cold, the rain, and the monotony. They didn't get away from the rain (at least until Sunday), but that didn't stop them from letting loose. Both Sprague and Findlay left their marks on Manhattan Beach. Sprague left his in the form of his body's imprint on the sand, where he inexplicably woke up at 6AM on Saturday morning. Findlay left his with a marathon drinking effort that included solo dancing, spilled cocktails, and frequent bicep flexes. I'm not sure they left refreshed on Monday, but 116 Manhattan Ave is not the place for facials and backrubs. Its more of a drinking, mocking, pizza-eating, womanizing, sleeping, leave-your-insecurities at the door extravaganza. It's brilliant. After they left I decided to get serious with Iseman...no, not that way, I wanted to surf. I squeezed into Nolz' wet suit one morning and I'm not sure why I did what I did next. I decided that I looked weird in just this tight, black wet suit. So I put my bright blue board shorts over them. I decided that wasn't enough and added my blue and white rash guard to the ensemble as well. Now I was ready to go. I walked into the living room to meet Iseman. He took one look at me and said, "Are you serious?"
I thought I was. "Is...a...this not...a..what people do?" Iseman's response was definitive, "No." He also added that he wouldn't go down to the beach with me looking like that and then asked if this is what surfers in Australia did. I thought about it and no, I had never seen anyone who looked the way I did. Not that you need to conform or anything, but you also don't want to look like an idiot, I suppose. I decided just the wet suit would be fine. Now, with that whole ordeal behind me, I figured the surfing would probably be a snap compared to dressing for it. Of course, I figured wrong. I surfed for three days with very limited success. I think I may have caught one wave and got to my feet twice. I just find the damn sport hard. My struggling must have been apparent to others because two different people gave me pep talks and tips while I was catching my breath on the beach. It's safe to say I haven't mastered surfing yet. On my last Saturday in L.A., they finally took me outside of Manhattan Beach to Venice. What they say about LA is not untrue: fake women, fake breasts, fake attitude, and fake celebrity watching is what its all about. It's brilliant.
The only celebrities I saw was a chick from Temptation Island and maybe someone from Elimadate. Okay, those aren't celebrities. And the people aren't that bad, either. I definitely met some fakish women and testocerine-filled men, but George and Iseman's friends were very cool and welcoming. Playing and watching hoops with those guys and gals was probably the highlight of my stay. Oh, and the emotional abuse from Iseman was pretty great, too.
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