Last night I journeyed to Santa Monica, a 8-mile strip of streetlights wrapped in bright blue lights, tiny vintage shops, and beach cruisers. The pier is home to a neon farris wheel that swirls yellow, blue and florescent green into a black night sky. In front of most of the houses is a buffer of palm trees, high bushes swaying lightly, and imperfectly pieced together spunky wooden fences that don't scream"Keep Out," as the Beverly Hill high rot iron gates do,  but  guard the secrets each peculiar shaped beach abode holds.  

Sandwiched between the mansions of Malibu and the turban-wearing, electric guitar playing roller bladders of Venice, Santa Monica is a family friendly little town that might be mistaken for Edmond's Wash. if it weren't for the weed dispensaries dotting the main drag. We moved south into Venice beach to Abbott Kinney st. Here,  we found the brig. Despite this bar's  reputation for stiff drinks, my $5  cosmo failed to give me anything more than a sugar high. Plus it came in a glass about 90% full of ice. The night was far from a bust though: we moved to a gay bar about three blocks down, making it in moments before last call. We didn't have to wait at the bar and I met a teddy bear like fellow from Tacoma, Wash. Near felt like I was home in Capitol Hill. Afterwards we crammed in Simon's car and headed to the Mar Vista home he house-sits. Inside we devoured Vegan snack, met two wise old cats,  and a slipped into a hot tub nestled deep in the rear corner of an overgrown garden. 

This morning, Corey and I went to The Harvest Cafe in Brentwood. A charming little restaurant with dressed in brink and oak paneled walls, the Harvest Cafe's brunch blew me away. I devoured an egg white omelet of fresh organic veggies blanketed in tomato basil sauce. We rode back listening to George Watsky and drinking the sun of San Vicente Blvd.