By IN LA BY HEIDI MANTEUFFEL
As a writer living in Santa Monica you don’t need to look far for good subject matter. The idiosyncrasies of the town lend ready ammunition for any writing war.
If I were a tile worker, I would fashion you a mosaic of all the eccentric happenings I see here in a single month. While I don’t have tile pieces, I do have collected memories that make up an eclectic picture of the LA I’ve come to love, enjoy, or bemusedly tolerate.
Drive with me to work. I notice an elderly woman who has the ritual of pushing her shopping cart two feet ahead, and slowly shuffling towards it. Upon reaching it, she mechanically pushes it again two feet further.
The whole process takes about a minute and a half in front of oncoming traffic, allowing for the stoplight to successfully cycle from green to red.
Step out of your car and head to Barnes & Noble on Third Street. There was a homeless man here who heard me talking about the GRE. Concerned, he came over to help me pick out the perfect GRE prep book, saying that one in particular looked nice because it had three practice tests.
Or I don’t know … talk to the man who tried to sell me backpocket Vodka. He explained it came in a liquid pouch so you don’t get glass shards when you sit down at parties. Be warned that this is also the man who introduced me to Passion (sex) Gum.
Those types of interactions usually happen only one time per outing. However, there were a slew of off-guard people I saw last night, specifically at the Pico Lane bowling alley.
The Pico bowling alley was a breeding ground for the odd and normally challenged. I don’t know if it’s the striped bowling shoes, grip gloves or skip-hop-jump throwing techniques. But everywhere I looked, LA was at its finest.
And by finest I mean a man with pink hair bands sectioning off his long beard/goatee.
I never really noticed this fusion of oddness here before, but I think waiting two hours for an open lane gave us adequate time to observe. 70 … 70... the sign maintained a steady holding on the number 70 for a solid 40 minutes. Our ticket was for 80. Eyes started to wander to families enjoying bowling/bonding time, teenagers dressed to impressed and, finally, to the man with Pippi Longstocking beard bands.
As you know, bowling alleys are a hot spot for birthday parties. Here was what looked to be an 18-year-old celebrating her birthday in mid bowl. Dressed in a light pink, Wet Seal outfit and a flower in her hair, she jumped like a schoolgirl as her ball made connection with the pins. I must have lost a year off my life as my eyes made connection with her well-defined brow line, indicating that she had done this perhaps 45 times prior.
I’m not saying everyone there was a bit off track. The large majority of people were just shuffling along in blue/red bowling shoes gyrating in wild gestures every time they got a spare. Completely normal. It’s just once in awhile I’d happen upon a screaming little girl in a party dress trying to lodge her third bowling ball successfully into the gutter.
Just as we were waiting in line to return shoes, a friend pointed out to me our going-away present — a bowling pirate. There stood a 30-year-old woman with black bandana, high, black buckle boots, and near-to-be eye patch. The only thing I could think to say was “gharrrrrr.”
And there you have it. In the mix of the everyday people you see in this lovely town, you’re bound to happen across the ones that give it its distinct flavor of powdered sugar and crack. But it’s cool, they help to add the sequined and chartreuse tiles to the lovely, or at very least living Mosaic of LA. (Heidi is a freelance writer, and)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on March 29, 2005. Read the original PDF.