Friday, August 31, 2012

the last book I ever read (Buzz Bissinger's Father's Day, excerpt eight)

from Father's Day: A Journey into the Mind and Heart of My Extraordinary Son by Buzz Bissinger:

We head for the Santa Monica Pier. We go through a piss-scented tunnel. We set foot on the pier and are hit with the scent of creosote and suntan lotion and funnel cakes and sausages pinging and popping on greasy grills. There is a flow of a breeze. We stop and take the breeze in, as we lean against the pier railings out over the water. The view stuns me because I never associate Los Angeles with the ocean. I forget it is there like you tend to forget that most of Los Angeles is there. People move through the sand with surprising lightness and agility playing volleyball. Others stretch themselves out to the anatomical limit to sunbathe, their own torture rack. Others walk along the edge of the beach in sundresses to immerse their toes in undulating waves creased with soft silver. They look incredibly happy, kind of like Bette Davis at the end of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? after she has buried her sister in the sand. It is still California.

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