ocean beach chronicle #4 by trevor watson

made with luv in ob

the ocean beach chronicle

surfboards clothing rentals & more!

1963 Abott Street

226-13111

the surf life ob-style 2

the ocean beach chronicle

made with luv in ob

Welcome to

The OB Chronicle #4

Now Available! The “fun-official” OB Calendar

1961

Welcome Fellow OB’eachns ~ When my dear Friend, the OB Fabulous Creative Genius with the HUGE Heart that is Trevor, invited me to be the Guest Greeter for this very Special Vote ‘OB Edition, especially as I’ve been hounding him to get another issue out before the All-Important November 4th Voting date, I jumped on it!! The Always Funkee and Much Anticipated OB Chronicle has already embedded itself into the Fabric of our OB Centric culture in our own little Wonderland we call OB. And as I heard it, it was virtually just screaming to crank up the Volume in Volume 4 to get the Word out for Prop 2!! As there is a little something for everyone this election, Prop 2 is SO Important; an Opportunity to step out of our OBox for a minute and to band together 2 help 20 Million Animals per Year and give them a Voice!! Prop 2 is the Prevention of Farm Animal Cruelty Act and simply states that factory farm animals would be able to Stand Up, Lie Down, Turn Around and Extend Their Limbs. We have some important decisions to make as we head to the polls to place our own moral and ethical values in which bubbles we choose on the ballot. Please ﬁnd it in each of your hearts to go out this Tuesday, November 4th and ﬁll in that bubble to cast your All Important Vote to do your part in the cause against animal cruelty. Your support is critical to the success of this effort!! It’s an idea that’s time is way overdue – so, as all good

ideas need grassroots groups and individuals to make a difference, this is your opportunity to help Many, Many Animals from deplorable situations. Please… Please… Please… Go Out and VOTE!!! Yes on Prop 2!! It Takes A Village.. There aren’t enough words to be able to Thank ALL the people who have Stood Up and contributed to this Wonderfully Worthy Cause against animal cruelty in so many ways. Thank You 2 Trev for dedicating your Awesomely Fantabulous OB Chronicle 2 Helping Spread the Word!! 2 the wonderful volunteers who have donated countless hours gathering signatures, handing out information & making phone calls to registered voters, 2 ALL the people (and animals) who proudly wore their YES on Prop 2 stickers, 2 all of YOU who purchased our OBeautiful ‘OB-‘09 Calendar & to all the businesses that are helping us sell them around town – it was AWESOME to be able to send an OBig Phat Check to Californians for Humane Farms to help the advertising campaign with the donations raised from the sales – truly Thank You!! 2 the dedicated people/Friends who showed up for our photo opps, and the local businesses who used their hard earned money to advertise in this issue.. the selﬂessness that has risen above, in despite of the economy woes at present, speaks volumes about Our OB Family that has literally Risen to the Cause. YOU truly exude the OB spirit of what our community is really about. Your commitment to some of California’s most neglected animals is appreciated. Thank You for Your Support and Dedication. It is the true spirit of these wonderful individuals in their respective businesses with their undeterred grassroots morals that actually brought this issue to fruition. Thank You & please OBelieve me when I say you will be Thanked profusely and often in so many ways… and to the rest of our OBeloved Community, please join us for future editions of yours’ and my new Fave read – The OB Chronicle, that is!! OBviously!! ;). Sending out a Very Special Shout Out to My AWESOME Mom!! HI MOM!! Thank You for Your Unconditional Love, ALL Your Help & ALL You Do!! You Are The OBest & I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!! I got SO lucky when I got YOU for My Mom!! =) XOXO To Claudia, for OBeing Claudia and watching over and having all our OBacks!! So Supportive - always with a GR8 OBig smile – I think that would be called an OBig Job!! Jodi and

Sue… Love You Too!! You keep OB In Harmony with the Universe ~ & that’s an OBeautiful Thing!! Trev, Dave, Jon, Holly, Efi, Otis, Rich, Vanessa, Jules, Tammy, Lisa, Joe, James, John, Noah, Emily, Meagan, Danielle, Fallon, Julie, Faith, Lauren, Becca, Denny, Barbara, Lorraine, Jeri, Chris, Noriko, Kacey, Trish, Blowski, RichAAAy, Breann, The OBU’s, Jeff & Everyone with the True OB Attitude & Spirit… You are my Sunshine, my Rock, my Paper & my Scissors!! Thanks 4 Helping Us Spread Love OB Style!! =) Also to Lynette and Mike Saffran of Blue Frog and Saffran Packaging, 2 of the Most OB Friendly People I know. They have been True Stand-Up OB’tians & Wonderful Friends in Every Sense. No matter how many or crazy ideas I’ve proposed – & there have been a few… they’ve never said no… sound familiar Trev?? Gotta LOVE THAT and I truly do LOVE ALL of YOU!!! Tony Bennett might have left his heart in San Francisco, but All Your Hearts are definitely IN OB!! How lucky are we to live in The Most Wonderful Place in the World in a State of Utmost Bliss!! HOLLA!! =) And to the animals who share my life & bring me SO Much Joy ~ they remind me of my Purpose Every Day!! If YOU are able to provide a good loving home & are looking for a new Best Friend and Family member, please visit San Diego County Dept of Animal Control www.sddac.com to find your new Best Friend….. There are so many Sweet Souls there just waiting for YOU!! Please Remember 2 VOTE YES on Prop 2!! With an OB Attitude of Gratitude and Sending Lots of OB Love to my fellow OB’tians, Peace & XOBXOBXOB ~ Love OB Style, (= Cyndee Love with the OB Attitude =) And Wishing Many OBlessings to Each of You This Holiday Season….. The OB’tians have landed and We’re Here to Stay…….. Join the Love Fest!! =) VOTE ‘OB…. Please…. Vote YES on Prop 2!! We look forward to your contributions, writings, photos & wot not. miserable ol’ sod - Trevor Watson trevordesigns@yahoo.com writer & ad sales - Dayna Celise - 619-808-9371 ad sales & pain in the ass - Trina Evans - 619-454-4701

made with luv in ob

Available at most stores in Ocean Beach Makes a superb souvenir A time-capsule of OB Spreadin’ LOVE OB Style Get yours NOW the ocean beach chronicle

barefoot girl in a bright flowing skirt twirls in the street, her unharnessed breasts undulating to the captivating sound of a Reggae band. The air is thick with exotic aromas, crazy flowers glisten in the sun, and Her Majesty the Pacific nods approvingly in the wings. It is Wednesday evening in Ocean Beach, and the Farmer’s Market is jumping. When I decided to return to California, I had the entire state from which to choose my new home. Having already lived in San Francisco, I narrowed my options to Southern California and headed to San Diego. It didn’t take long for Ocean Beach to enchant me with her Bohemian opus. Ocean Beach, also known as OB, is love and peace on a Harley that sways to the beat of a jungle drum. Nonlinear time stands still in this surrealistic paradise reminiscent of America in the late 1960s. Mom-and-pop establishments reign, and organic is the password. Most of us locals know each other and share a bond that is held together by the desire for offbeat camaraderie that is sweetened with patchouli-scented embraces. OBceans are what the people from Ocean Beach are called. Unlike the rest of San Diego County, we are a distinct breed recognized by tattoos, piercings, Rasta hair, and a sixties persona with surfer attitude. Residence here is the royal cloak we proudly wear as we strut down Newport, Voltaire, or Santa Monica Avenues. We are not from San Diego. We are from OB. The Wall is the focal point of all the action in OB. The Wall is at the end of Newport Avenue and separates the “boardwalk,” which is actually a sidewalk, from the beach. Standing about three feet high, it is a Fellini-esque

paella of characters—hippies, yuppies, bikers, students, poets, musicians, singers, surfers, skaters, and “the regulars.” The regulars are those of us who can be found Wall-lounging on a consistent basis and who more or less govern the area. Here, OBceans share food, entertainment, a kind word, the latest gossip, and hugs. We are Wall family. Tourists don’t spend much time in our Woodstock-by-the-Waves neighborhood. We don’t have an amusement park or upscale dining

of the weaving 1940s’ black Ford, which is the “unofficial” parade start. The elegant flagship is usually manned by a mob-like character that looks as if he stepped out of one of the Godfather movies. This is usually followed by a rowdy group of bikers. Normally, at this point, there is a long pause where nothing happens. There are many long gaps in the local parades. It has something to do with everyone functioning on “OB time.” The floats and musical entertainment eventually kick off the “official” start.

As evening approaches, a gauzy curtain lifts to reveal a shimmering stage lit by a vibrant sunset and the green flash that signals the end of the day. Musicians begin to gather, their notes punctuating the evening air and sychronizing with the beat of my heart. and shopping, and most hard-core OBceans frighten visitors. Although we do our best to impress them, they walk past the Wall contorting their faces as if they just smelled a sewer. Holding on tightly to their children and elders, most travelers ﬂee our funky town and head for La Jolla as fast as their Dockers will carry them. Although OB celebrates many holidays and holds several festivals, the winter holiday parade is the pièce de résistance. Part Mardi Gras, part protest march, part military review, and deﬁnitely out of the ordinary, it is the ultimate expression of all that is OBcean. Around the beginning of December, the town gathers on Newport in anticipation

Smartly marching bands are followed by groups whose affiliations are a complete mystery. Once I questioned the purpose of what I thought was a marching condom. I was immediately informed that it was not a condom but a cigarette butt being banished by one of the ecological surfing organizations. The most interesting part of this parade is the placement of the segments. For instance, it is not unusual to see the Hell’s Angels following the Jesus float or the rollerblading Derby Dollies tearing around pogo stick walkers trying to dodge bicyclists doing tricks. One year the Elvis float followed a rolling church nativity scene, resulting in “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful” being backed up by

Midnightish by Dayna Celise

the ocean beach chronicle

made with luv in ob

“Jailhouse Rock.” That’s OB. The OB Christmas tree is the centerpiece of the winter holidays. Most years it is more air than tree. Standing around forty feet high, it is planted in the sand at the end of Newport Avenue behind the Wall and either leans, sags, or tilts. The lights, which should form a pyramid shape, create a droopy cylindrical one. The low-hanging decorations invade Santa’s gift request post and compete with the rest of the Wall for space. Our yearly tree, unique and endearing, stands as a testament to the statement “Everyone is welcome in OB.” The free-spiritedness that tightly weaves the fabric of this town touches every level of its inhabitants. Fur people (especially dogs) are held in high esteem. They take part in the parades and have a beach and at least one park dedicated to them. They are welcome in most of the commercial establishments, and local merchants always make sure big bowls of water are available for them, as well as special treats. Once I saw the cutest pooch and queried the owner as to its breed. “Oh,” she replied, “I have no idea except that she’s an OB love child.” As evening approaches, a gauzy curtain lifts to reveal a shimmering stage lit by a vibrant sunset and the green ﬂash that signals the end of the day. Musicians begin to gather, their notes punctuating the evening air and synchronizing with the beat of my heart. I climb to the other side of the Wall and slide down to the beach. Seduced by OBcean life, I throw off the shackles of inhibition and emerge from my cocoon—a barefoot gypsy dancing in the moonlight. – By Bohhemianopus

Catch -22

By Joseph Heller $1.25 CATCH-22 is masterful in so many ways. It begins as comic farce, proceeds to the increasingly s u r r e a l , and then transforms into a nightmarish t r a g e d y before ending triumphantly. No novel that I know so successfully blends all these disparate moods. I believe it was Hugh Walpole who wrote, “Life is a comedy to those who think, and a tragedy to those who feel.” No book illustrates that better than this novel. This truly is one of the funniest books I have ever read. It is also one of the most tragic. CATCH-22 also introduces one of the most insane collection of great characters in ﬁction: Yossarian, the Chaplain, Orr, ex-P.F.C Wintergreen, Milo Minderbender, Maj. Major Major Major, Nately, Doc Daneeka, Danby, General Dreedle, Nately’s girl Cathcart, Nurse Duckett, The Texan, Major de Coverley, The Soldier in White, and a host of other characters. It is one of the most gloriously populated novels to come out this year. This is a novel I can almost not discuss except through superlatives: greatest war novel I have read, funniest novel I have ever read. But the best thing is that it is, on top of being a superb book, an exceedingly fun book to read. Even at its nightmarish, this is a fun, delightful book. And few novels contain as many unforgetable moments as this one. I think this may become a classic.

The Carpetbaggers By Harold Robbins .95 cents

Harold Robbins, love him or hate him you cannot deny that he was a master storyteller. While The Carpetbaggers may not be great literature it is a great read. This book along with Puzo’s The Godfather are great examples of the

American power story. The book gives us a twenty year glimpse into the life of Jonas Cord. Cord turns everything he touches into money while his own life is falling apart. The interesting thing about this novel is not really the story it tells but the way in which the story is told. Told through the lives of the people Cord comes into contact with, Robbins gives us enough material for ﬁve novels let alone one. Here we have the history of the early twentieth century through the lives of a ex-gunﬁghter, a Hollywood actress, a movie company executive, and the proverbial prostitute with the heart of gold. Part of the fun of any novel of this type is discovering who the major characters were based on. Cord is a clear pictue of Howard Hughes while Rina Marlow seems to be loosely based on Jean Harlow. The reader needs to become immersed in this novel. One does not so much as read it but lives the lives of these characters if only for a little while. You let this one take you away and you embark on one hell of a ride. – Bryan

celebs sighted this month in OB 1961 La Dolce Vita Indeed! – The ever-so gorgeous Sophia Loren and handsome Marcello Mastriani have been staying this past week at the Ocean Villa Inn. Plenty of smiles and I’m sure plenty of hankypanky . . . shucks, that’s movie stars for you. The beautiful and exotic actress, Anouk Aimée was seen shopping at The Good

British author, Ian Fleming is in town promoting his new James Bond thriller - Thunderball. This coming Saturday he’ll be reading a few excerpts at Your Mama’s Mug Coffee House.

Thunderball

By Ian Fleming

.95 cents

This novel is a great edition to the 007 series and contains the introduction to SPECTRE and its leader, Blofeld. After a NATO bomber armed with two nuclear w a r h e a d s vanishes, the world is soon held for ransom by the evil organization SPECTRE. James Bond is assigned to Nassau and works with his old friend Felix Leiter as they find themselves on the trail of the missing bombs. A very entertaining book and ranks pretty highly among From Russia With Love and On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Think it’ll make a great film. [after making love to the evil Fiona Volpe] James Bond: My dear girl, don’t flatter yourself. What I did this evening was for Queen and country. You don’t think it gave me any pleasure, do you? – Terry

Life. As you may remember in 1958 she portrayed the tragic artist Jeanne Hébuterne in the ﬁlm Les Amants de Montparnasse, I loved that ﬁlm! You can catch Anouk on the screen in the new smash hit - La Dolce Vita, which incidentaly is playing sunday here in Ocean Beach at our very own Strand theatre.

C r a z y night at Dream Street . . . new Dutch rock band calling themselves Golden Earring passed through town. What a great performance. Patricia Phoenix was spotted having breakfast at The Village Cupboard. Patricia plays the devilmay-care divorcée, Elsie Tanner in the new brit soap opera Coronation Street that is now making its way over the pond. Check your TV guide for times. Scrawney little British chap by the name of George Harrison played a few songs at Winston’s last Friday. He’s part of a new pop group that call themselves The Beatles. Bit of a stupid name if you ask me, not go far with a name like that.

Watch for more new releases in our essential reading section next issue – Dec 1

made with luv in ob

the ocean beach chronicle

oliver reed up close and personal with

by Trevor / The Arizona Cafe, 1961 / Ocean Beach To ask a world star about his drinking habits could court disaster. But, especially for this issue, we received an exuberant welcome from the big, burly actor you hate to love and love to hate. IT WASN’T AN interview, it was a performance, when The OB Chronicle went to the Arizona Cafe in Ocean Beach to speak to Oliver Reed; actor-philosopher, brawler, hard-drinking womaniser; the public school educated hoodlum with the road-map eyes, who can drop his aitches with the best of them when it comes to playing cockney roles, or contort his face in homicidal anger, emitting a bona ﬁde Glaswegian accent. The mercury is on a permanent roller-coaster in Suite 601 as Mr. Reed kisses and clouts, insults and cajoles, in trilby hat and bath towel, armed only with his not inconsiderable talent, and a bottle of Chablis. He bounds around the Arizona Bar, infrequently pausing long enough to allow himself to be interrupted. I arrive at 10.30 and leave at 7.50. In the interim Mr. Reed has frightened the living daylights out of me and our photographer; has had us gagging into our booze with laughter; danced an impromptu Irish jig with Bridie, the chambermaid - “God, you’re not bad -for an Englishman!” - stood on his head in the downstairs bar during the ‘holy hour’ and gravely assured us that there is more bullshit in Father Christmas than his

reindeer. For public consumption Oliver Reed is the Muhammad Ali of stage and screen. The John L. Sullivan braying: “I can lick any sonofabitch in the world.” Yet the truth is the opposite. He is, in private life and to his intimates, desperately shy and totally vulnerable; a people-collector who conscripts friends as an insurance that his inner-citadel will not be breeched. Success hasn’t made him a gentleman. He was born one. Meanwhile, on with the motley. Let us play the fool, with mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come . . .

the ocean beach chronicle

Act I (The OB Chronicle knocks at the door.) Girl: Are you from the little OB Chronicle? Trevor: (amiably): And who the fucking hell are you? Girl: Er. . . his secretary. Um . . . won’t you come in? Man (on sofa, in jockey-pants, rises): See this, mate! See this? (He points to a thumping great bruise under one eye.) Voice (offstage): Cut! Oh! I say! Fuck it! Hopeless, the pair of you. Oliver Reed (enters downstage): She was supposed to lift up her sweater and flash her tits as she said: “Are you the man from the dirty magazine?” He was supposed to threaten you by asking if you were the bucko who hit him last night... (He turns to the girl.) It was a perfectly simple walk-on part, darling. Now run along and fuck off ... (A second girl appears from the direction of the bedrooms. She doesn’t speak, smiles bravely, and walks through.) Oliver Reed: Halt! Who are you ? Ah, I remember. Something else to do with him - (pointing towards the man in the jockeyshorts.) Now look here. I do not care whether you have attended me, or anyone else under my roof, but when you leave you do not slink out of my presence like some village trollop, carrying your knickers in your handbag. You, madam, are courteous, even ethereal. You wish us all a ‘good morning’, bow and depart. 2nd Girl: Christ; what’s he on about? Oliver Reed (majestically rising): Out, damned spot. OUT, I say! Don’t give me any of that love or gratitude shit. Fuck off! (Turning to Trevor.) You see the power of acting, and its effect. Have I made you uncomfortable by my appalling language and manners? Trevor: Yes. Oliver Reed: Well, then I have succeeded! Trevor: The Class of Miss MacMichael, the film you did with Glenda Jackson, is now on general release, and we see plenty of other Oliver Reed pictures re-released, but what are you doing at the moment - here in Dublin? Oliver Reed: The week before last I was on my back in the desert; the Libyan one and in the literal sense of the phrase, surrounded by 4,000 of Colonel Gaddafi’s soldiers with about that amount of bluebottles crawling around my mouth. Filming - playing the part of an Italian General, when my heart said to my body: “Where, more than any other place on earth, would you like to be at the moment?” And my body replied to my heart: “In Ireland. In Dublin. In the Gresham Hotel, high above O’Connell Street.” And here I am ... Here, have this Winnie-the-Pooh badge,

with Piglet. . . Trevor: But there’s no Piglet. There’s only Pooh and Christopher Robin. Oliver Reed: Damn and blast! I know my Milne; I know there’s no Piglet on it. But you must imagine he’s there. The little chap who wrapped himself around a tree . . . Trevor: Um . . . well I, actually, preferred Eeyore. Oliver Reed: What! That absent-minded sod? Would you leave your tail behind? Trevor (glancing at the bedrooms) : Well, no. Oliver Reed: Here, come and look at my pigeon. No, do please ﬁrst come and look at this painting, here, in the corner. He (jockey-pants, on the sofa) bought it for me from the hotel as a present. I am absolutely entranced. Look, it shows two buckos about to have a set-to, two restraining them and a lady cooling things down. They’re obviously in jar and having a bloody good time. Don’t you see the value to posterity of that scene is that it’s a cameo, a vignette? Scenes like this take place downstairs in O’Connell Street, all over Dublin, and the rest of the world every hour of every day . . . Trevor: You have a fearsome reputation for ﬁghting yourself. Oliver Reed: No, no, dear boy, I have never fought myself. I am not Irish, unfortunately. Not like Brian Boru who could, ‘tis said, pick himself up at arm’s length with one hand, and hold himself out by the other.

made with luv in ob

In fact, I don’t think gentlemen should talk about their fights, any more than their women. I detest the physical grandee with an inferiority that makes him have to prove himself all the time. Words last much longer than the effects of a punch and are twice as deadly. Trevor: But didn’t you get into a . . . that is, have an altercation, upon some licensed premises as long ago as last night? Oliver Reed: To the best of my recollection an animated discussion took place in the pisshole of a public house just down the road. Trevor: You were rather tired at the time, perhaps? Oliver Reed: Tired, but not at that point emotional. Some bucko, to coin a local metaphor, was thirsting for a fight, and I therefore acceded to his request that we repair to the bog to discuss terms. Well, to hell with it, I thought. What’s the point? He hadn’t done anything which called for a thumping. At least, not to me. So, I fixed him with an icy stare and said: “If you so much as raise either your voice or your fist to me again I will make you part of the urinal stalls for ever.’’ He looked, wavered, his eyes left mine, and at that moment I knew I had won. I smiled, stuck out my hand, and I believe he was as relieved as I when we rejoined the company. Trevor: But it doesn’t always end like that, does it? You have that scar on your face

from a previous punch-up, don’t you? Oliver Reed: Yes, but the times I walk away from trouble are those which don’t get written up in the media. Oh! I’m not complaining. I know what makes news. You see I believe in the male orientated society - what I would term the natural order of things. Every man has his dignity, and that is the most important thing, to himself, about him. You destroy that at your peril. You see, you have it, for example. It has taken you half-an-hour to relax and stop pretending to write in your notebook. You will remember what I say because I know that you find me interesting as a person, not foremost a personality, and therefore I am no longer intimidating you. You have also stopped putting your glasses on and off. I do that, too, as a first line of defence sometimes. I suppose men and their dignity are the main reasons I became an actor. I like getting under someone’s skin, playing roles. And I like people entertaining me, instead of my having to do it. Let us take the word ‘womaniser’. What is meant by it? Does it involve carnal knowledge - what the physical classes call ‘fucking’? Is it merely being in their company, smiling at them, taking them out and home, but not to bed? You tell me! Trevor: I think to bed. Oliver Reed: Okay. Then it may or may not please you to know that since I have been here in Ocean Beach I have never gone to bed with another woman. I happen to be in love with my mistress. Trevor: Your hat. It doesn’t fit. Where did you get it? Oliver Reed: See those initials around the inside rim? ‘MR’? My son is Mark Reed. I gather he’s not speaking to me at the moment, so I shall leave it for him at our dental surgeon’s when next I am in London. He’s 18, taller and stronger now than his father. When he was 11 I remember getting him in a Japanese Snake Bum on the lawn. I said: ‘ ‘I won’t break your neck now, if you promise not to break mine when you’re 18!” Trevor: Is it much of a row? Oliver Reed: I hope to God not. I have a boat in the South of France. Mark came down to spend some time with me. I didn’t much like his friends. Not my business in a way but I am his father. Anyhow, I bollocked him for going around in shit-order and for not cleaning his half of the boat-deck. “Lazy little bastard!” I shouted. And he’s bigger than me now. Well, he went. Left me a note, and that was it. But, back to the hat. It was in a shop here in Dublin, in a back street, surrounded by shawls, priced £2. There was an old woman in the shop, dressed in black. She didn’t say much when I asked for it. She knew, you see, to whom it had previously belonged. And look . . . the initials . . . MR. Trevor: How long have you had it? Oliver Reed: Ah . . . Let me see. (He picks up an Allied Irish Banks Credit Card.) Probably a couple of drinking nights ago. There was this absolutely amazing solicitor who gave me his name by leaving me his credit card. They are really fucking mad here. Trevor: Do you have a drink problem? Oliver Reed: None at all, dear boy. I’ll fall over. No problem! I suppose the best thing is a hair of the dog . . . but if you want, for any peculiar reason, to become absolutely sober then it’s bed and the sweats. What was it Sir Winston Churchill said? That he felt sorry for the teetotaller because when

he got up he knew that was the best he was going to feel all day? I drink Chablis in the mornings and afternoons. I never touch anything else until the evenings . . . Trevor: What about tea, milk, coffee? Oliver Reed: They are poison, dear boy. Poison. Get them into your blood stream and it’s the funny farm and Donald Duck. Trevor: Not even water? Oliver Reed: Only with whisky. It improves the taste. Trevor: Who are your heroes? Oliver Reed: Marlon Brando and Willie John McBride. They are Men! A friend here in Dublin is arranging a meeting with Willie John and I shall be quiet for once. Trevor: I take it you were no supporter of the last government, and approve of playing rugby against South Africa. Oliver Reed: Right. I think our views would be the same. So just quote me as saying what you like, and I’ll go along with it. Trevor: Why are you a Conservative? Oliver Reed: Because I believe in myself as an individual. I dislike being told what to do and what to think. Trevor: Would you, do you think, still be a Tory if you were born in less exalted

circumstances? Oliver Reed: I wasn’t born with the arse hanging through my trousers, but they weren’t issuing silver spoons on the National Health either, 41 years ago. My father was a journalist, my uncle, Sir Carol Reed, and on my mother’s side we are Trees. Look at this picture of Beerbohm Tree. Those eyes! Don’t you see a similarity? Trevor: Yes. Oliver Reed: I’ll tell you a story. I was making a ﬁlm for Uncle Carol, playing a cockney. I had a line: ‘. . . out of the house’, which I pronounced as a cockney would - ‘out of the aahss’. “You can’t say ‘out of the arse’,” Uncle Carol told me. “The Americans won’t understand what you’re talking about.” There were two cockneys on the set, working the lights. I said to them: “Well; you heard. Now, how is it said?” “Aht of the aaahsss, Olly, course,’’ they both replied at once. Christ! That’s it, I was Bill Sykes. Act II (It is the Holy Hour, That period of time in Ireland when Mass is being read to the more devout, when all places of drink are shut to the general public, Oliver Reed, as a resident, is exempt and leads the procession to the Gresham’s long bar below, clad in Tshirt with a ‘W, an anchor and an ‘S’, as a breast motif.)

Oliver Reed: (to barman, in his best Dublin accent): Now, what the fhock is dat? (Points to the motif.) Barman: Ah! Sure, it’s the mark of the hand shandy mob; like me mate here. Mate: Fhock yez! Oliver Reed: May we have some drinks? Barman: Some of what kind? Oliver Reed: (to Trevor); You deal with them, I’m not up to an Irish conversation at present. (Goes to the centre of the bar area and stands on his head.) Barman: (bending): Would you like to pay me now or sign? (Oliver Reed obligingly lifts two fingers.) American Girl: Gee, you’re awfully rude! Oliver Reed: And you, madam, are awfully boring. Either cease interrupting me in my devotions or go upstairs to my room and take your knickers off. (Girl is shocked and rises.) Madam, pray be seated. Let there be no indecent haste, especially at your age. (Ocean Beachers come up to Mr. Reed with their autograph books - all ages, sexes and sizes. He signs every one, thanking them.) Oliver Reed: You see, most women don’t know their place. Especially Americans. Have we covered everytihng? That’s your sixth pint. I must say you can handle it well. Look, I’ll pay and you put it down to Mr. Raymond. I believe in reincarnation - are you listening? All right, I’ll wait ‘til you’ve finished singing. I must tell you, I cannot stand the quackquacks - the St. George’s Hill people at Weybridge. They go: quack-quack, quackquack, quack-quack, and talk a load of absolute fucking nonsense. Some of them came to my place and one man - a bank manager (“I’m in banking ...” a bank manager, I ask you. That sort of bullshit) began asking me about myself. Well, I can’t spell. There’s a difficult word for those of us who can’t, but I can sometimes pronounce it. Anyway, I told him I suffer from whateverit-is. “My dear chap,” he said, “tell me, how do you spell it?” Walked away with the Cunt of the Year Award, on the spot. Trevor: Reincarnation? Oliver Reed: No, let me tell you first. I am writing a book - a friend is ghosting it. He approached me to write it and I told him: “If you’re going to write about me you will have to come and live with me for two years.’’ He took me at my word and has the cottage over by the stables. He thinks it might take him a long time. All I say to him is that my name’s Reed, not fucking Beethoven, and I don’t want an unfinished concerto when I croak, or he does first. Perhaps one day, I’ll actually write a book myself. Just chapter headings of people and places, and then when I’m in my bath-chair, being pushed by a nigger, I will say: “Stop! Let us go to The Laburnam.’’ Yes, I do believe that the dead live again through the living. I am an ideal subject for the dead because they are dancing in my head. When I eventually croak I shall insist on coming back into somebody’s head like mine. Meanwhile, all the heavenly tarts are up there, dancing round the bloody maypole with their skirts above their heads. Waiter! Wouldja ever get us another drink? Trevor: You are very much a man’s man/male chauvinist - whichever view is taken. I know you admire Glenda Jackson. What other actresses with whom you have appeared do you rate? Oliver Reed: I won’t tell you because if I do

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then when I meet a girl playing opposite me who has just started her career it might intimidate her, thinking she’s now in the shoes of Glenda and the others. But Glenda is magnificent. She’ll steal any scene from anyone, and you don’t realise it until you see the takes. Trevor: Well, it’s time to go. I can’t thank you enough for giving me your time and your company. Who was that chap in jockey-shorts, by the way? Is he really your bodyguard? Oliver Reed: No, he’s a friend. I get awfully lonely and I just rang him up in London and asked him to come over, and he did. My phone bills are enormous. I spend two hours a day talking to my brother, David, who manages me, as you know. When you’re lonely pigeons are friends. They rise majestically like doves from the Ark. I’m not complaining about being lonely. It is, after all, self-inflicted, but the best thing is meeting new people every day and living out their fantasies for them. Won’t you stay to dinner? There will be only about a dozen of us this evening. Trevor: Not this time. Tell you what, read what I’ve written after it is published, and if you still want me to dine with you I’ll bring my old bat over to Broome Hall. Oliver Reed: Excellent. Watch that cabbie there. I can tell he’s half-pissed already. That’s the bloody man who never stops at traffic lights because he’s colour blind. . .

the ocean beach chronicle

By Michael Hemmingson El Cajon—I’m sitting on a concrete bench at the El Cajon Trolley Station. Have a bad feeling in my gut. I don’t want to be here: anywhere, anywhere but El Cajon. I’ve never liked this little part of East County, “the box,” and I’m not sure why. I don’t recall anything bad ever happening to me, but every time I’m here, I want out of the box, I want to go home: Ocean Beach—which has never felt like home—and jump under the blankets with my two cats and hide for the rest of the day, the week, the month, the year. I’m good at hiding. (In the late 1980s, when I drove for the La Mesa/El Cajon Dial-A-Ride, there were certain areas near Magnolia Avenue where I could smell the crystal meth being cooked in the amateur labs tucked away like dungeons in apartment complexes and track houses; it was so strong the other drivers claimed if you took in deep breaths, you could get high and stay away for two days.) It’s a muggy day and my legs hurt. I am waiting for the rural county bus, #892, to arrive at 2:30 p.m. and take me out to Borrego Springs. It’s been too long since I’ve been out to the desert. Life and sorrow has kept me away and it doesn’t feel right. I have been feeling the need, the desire to return to the return. Like the turtleshaped aliens say at the end of Ursula K. Le Guin’s seminal science-ﬁction novel, The Lathe of Heaven: “There are returns. To go is to return.” I haven’t taken the rural shuttle in more than two years. The last time I did, in 2004, the ride was operated by Laidlaw Transit, a private company out of Colorado that was in charge of a number of similar rural paratransit

the ocean beach chronicle

about eight passengers, many of them picked up at the Westﬁeld Parkway Shopping Mall; they have half a dozen bags of groceries, new clothing, weekly supplies. I’m just relieved to be out of El Cajon. On the 67 Freeway, there isn’t as much trafﬁc as usual and the driver puts his foot to the pedal and we’re going close to 65 mph. The underframe of the shuttle rattles so much that I start to wonder if the vehicle is going to fall apart. No one else seems to mind or care. The driver has the radio on, loud hit songs from the 1950s and 1970s makes me wants to whistle and sing along. It’s a good feeling, going back to the desert.

arrangements across the country; they had taken over operations from San Diego’s MTS and were running it three times a day, three days a week. For many years, the city operated the line five days a week, with one shuttle going to and leaving East County, another via Escondido. Many people without cars, the physically and mentally challenged, and foreign labor relied on this system to go in out of Borrego. Now, I discover, when calling to make a reservation, MTS is running the route again, one shuttle a day, but only on Thursdays and Fridays. It doesn’t make that much sense to me. What about the people who used to ride it every day? How did they get to work, go shopping, visit family? “There’s been something funny about the whole thing,” says my friend who lives in Borrego Springs, “when they had three buses a day, it seemed like they were intentionally trying to run it bankrupt—how could it have possibly been profitable that way? Or at least pay for itself?” It is 2:20 and I am getting impatient for the 892. Several people have been giving me strange looks, and I know the peep: I’ve been on the wrong end of those eyes prior to getting mugged: being sized up, determining if I will fight back, deciding if I have any money in my wallet or not. Two guys in plaid shirts, buttoned up to their necks, with shaved heads, start to fistfight. I’m not the only one nervous about this sudden act of violence. But they are playfighting. They stop, laugh, call each other “holmes” and “muthafucka” and walk away, good buddies.

A 300-hundred pound guy in baggy jeans keeps staring at me. I move away and sit somewhere else. He takes a few steps forward so he can continue to stare at me. A slender old man in green polyester pants sits down next to me. His glasses are an inch thick. He has to be in his seventies, I think. He grinds his teeth, loudly, and I know those can’t be real teeth… He stomps his shoes on the concrete…one, two, three times: POUND. “My feet!” he says. “I hate my feet! I hate how they feel! I need new feet, kid. Wanna trade?” “Mine don’t feel all that great either,” I say. “Trade you anyway.” “What?” “Trade—what d’ya say?” “There’s my ride.” I’m quite happy to see the 892 pull up, so I can get away before the old man steals my feet and the 300-pound man steals my wallet. Now I know why I never liked El Cajon. On the shuttle, I’m in for a surprise. The driver tells me it costs $10 to take me to Borrego, $8 with a bus transfer. “When did it get so expensive?” I ask. “Always been the fare,” he says. Not two years ago, not five years ago. The fare was always $3, $2 with a transfer, subsidized by the San Diego taxpayers. Then again, petrol is almost $4 a gallon now. Inflation can inflate that fast in two years. I pay the $10. Lakeside—The 892 is half-full,

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Ramona—We pick up some familiar faces: an Hispanic family that I used to always cross paths with three, four years ago: a woman in her 50s, her daughter, 30s, and three small children. They have two shopping carts full of groceries. There’s so many plastic and paper bags in the back of the shuttle that by the time we get to Borrego, it’ll be confusing what belongs to whom. We’re almost out of Ramona and on the road to Santa Isabel, where the shuttle will take a break and I can buy some buffalo and ostrich jerky at Don’s Market, when the driver gets a call on the radio. “Dammit,” he says quietly, Continues on page 13>

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the ocean beach chronicle

made with luv in ob

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made with luv in ob

the ocean beach chronicle

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Continued from page 8 turning the shuttle around. He’s not happy. We drive back into the center of Ramona and the Ralph’s Market. Two men in their ﬁfties, both wearing torn T-shirts and old jeans with mud stains, stand waiting with several cases of beer grocery bags. “We thought you forgot us,” one says to the driver. “I just got the call.” “We’ve been trying to reach that dispatcher for an hour,” the second man says. “Does he even work,” says the ﬁrst

man. “It’s good to see you anyway,” says the second. The driver looks annoyed. I know why because I am too: these men offend. They smell like stale beer, week-old sweat and greasy hair. Their scent ﬁlls up the shuttle, as they haul in their cases of Budweiser and food supplies. The driver turns on the air conditioning, even though it’s not hot. What would have happened, had the call not come in? They wouldn’t been stuck here in Ramona. No one wants to be stranded in Ramona. Could be worse: could be El Cajon. The two men crack open beers and drink, laughing and talking about better days. The driver doesn’t seem to care about the open containers. I remember people drinking on the shuttle years ago, and one time someone lit up a joint and freely smoked it. Lake Heneshaw—In what seems like the middle of nowhere, the driver drops off an elderly woman with two walking canes. I watch her out the window as we leave; she moves slowly, peacefully—it’s almost Zen.

front gate, but the driver takes us in, turns onto one of the streets and lets someone off at their door. “Where you heading?” he asks me. “I don’t know,” I say, “anywhere is good. Right by the pool area.” “You dunno know where you’re goin’?” the second man from the Ralph’s says. “I’m going here.” “Thought maybe you were goin’ to a campground, if you dunno where you’re goin’.” His words could be metaphysical in nature, I think. I say: “Here.” “Here? You’re not old enough to be here.” He seems offended. “This is my stop.” “This place is for people ﬁfty-ﬁve and older,” he says, now angry. “You’re not a senior citizen.” “I’ve been coming here for –” “You’re not old enough!” “Easy,” says the driver. “I can get off here,” I say. “You sure?” “Here is good.” The driver stops. “This isn’t right,” the man says,

folding his arms and squinting at me. I thank the driver and exit the shuttle The man yells: “You don’t belong here! You’re too young!” The 892 shuttles away. I take in a deep breath. Borrego Springs has a certain smell to it—that unusually fresh air, distinct ﬂowers, the excrement of exotic insects, and the dirt. Rabbits must have been mating recently because dozens of small ones hop happily about the green grass, and on the golf course. This is exactly where I belong, where I have always belonged the past ﬁfteen years. I can only stay the night, though; I have to catch the morning shuttle back into El Cajon, otherwise I will stuck out here for a week. Borrego Springs is the perfect place to be stranded in, though. Unfortunately, reality and responsibilities call me back to the home that doesn’t feel like home. Here: I am home, even if I am just a visitor; even if I never again go to the return.

Ranchita—The driver turns onto a dirt road and stops at a truck parked in a ditch. The ﬁrst man from the Ralph’s gathers up his case of beer and groceries, thanks the driver, and leaves. I watch him get into his truck and sit there. “You’d think he’d have family or someone to come rescue him,” says the second man, “but he’s been living in that truck two weeks now.” “What happened?” a fellow passenger asks. “He ran out of gas.” Next the beautiful drive down the Montezuma Grade, into the low desert of Borrego Springs. I feel sad. Yes, I’ve been away far too long. Borrego Springs—First, we drop off the Hispanic family at their rustic home. Already things are feeling and looking familiar. The shuttle drives into the Roadrunner Club, acres of pre-fab, single, double and triple-wide homes in a retirement complex. This is my destination. I usually get off at the

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the ocean beach chronicle

year ago I was excited about Tangier in Morocco and wrote in my blog, “It’s no longer the Tijuana of Africa.” I didn’t realize my comments would understandably touch a nerve with people who like Tijuana. So recently I went to Tijuana -- a Mexican town just across the U.S. border from San Diego -- to give it a second look. OK, I admit, I’d never been there ... so I’d give it a ﬁrst look. Working on my upcoming book on the value of travel as a political act, I also wanted to visit a rough border town where the First World meets the Developing World. I had a great time. While Tijuana isn’t a main destination town, it’s fun to visit as a side trip from San Diego or a stop while heading south. And if you want to observe the cultural and economic riptides created when two worlds collide, it’s a fascinating case study. At what locals claim is the busiest international border in the world, 24 lanes are busy with trafﬁc -- 24/7. It’s easy to get out of the United States -- and tough to get back in. A handy trolley zips tourists from San Diego right to the border for $3. It also brings Mexican workers into San Diego on a daily commute that thousands make. Drivers can park within 100 yards of the

the ocean beach chronicle

border for $8 a day. Pedestrians step right in without showing a passport, power past the trinket stalls and aggressive cabbies, and head for the towering arch that marks the start of Revolution Avenue and all the fun. Getting out of Mexico is different. Pedestrians shuffle fairly quickly through an officious passport check. Cars are generally stacked up for a several-hour wait. As taxis are dirt cheap, there’s no reason to drive if you’re just visiting Tijuana. Tijuana, barely a century old, thrives today with 1.5 million people. A local explained to me that there’s a big funnel from Mexico to the United States, and Tijuana is the little hole through which everything flows. While there’s the cross-border business -legal and illegal -- there’s also a thriving industry stoked by 650 maquiladoras -- assembly factories for First World manufacturers, located here for the cheap labor. With plants for Samsung, Sony, and Hitachi, locals claim that more TVs are assembled here than anywhere else. Throughout Mexico, Tijuana is considered a place of opportunity. With this thriving economy comes a thriving culture: music, arts, and an impressive cultural center. The city, while

architecturally dilapidated, is extremely clean. The streets were free of litter. Locals thank their new government that “gets things done.” Tijuana’s tiny old town, which radiates from the arch on Revolution Avenue, feels like a ramshackle version of the 1950s. You can’t miss all the things people come to a border town for: plastic surgery, dentistry, pharmaceuticals without prescriptions, cheap haircuts, Cuban cigars, and, of course, jumping beans. The kitsch is riveting -- glow-in-the-dark tattoos and hucksters hollering “Hello, 100 percent off today!” On nearly every street corner is a vendor with a donkey painted like a zebra, ready for you to don a sombrero and pose for a photo. Bars that feel like saloons come with cheap prostitutes wearing down their stiletto heels at their doors. Apparently the siesta is alive and well, as these places rent rooms by the hour. (There are also plenty of decent places - without company for hire in the lobbies -- renting $40 rooms on or near Revolution Avenue.) After a salesman promised me that the two-hour, $10 bus tour came with a ﬁne guided narration in English, I hopped on the bus. It was a great tour -- but with no guide. I chatted the best I

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could with the driver. He said the United States and Mexico are brothers, stuck together. If the U.S. gets the ﬂu, Mexico gets pneumonia. Hopping off the bus at the cathedral, I grabbed a pew, and joined a Mass. Sitting with hundreds of Mexicans, I enjoyed a vivid reminder that the gang that tourists see along Revolution Avenue and in front of the saloons is photogenic but not representative. This was the real Tijuana. Surrounded by well-worn people, I pondered how they were all at various stages on the same ride up and down the parabolas of their respective lives. Taking an hour out of their Sundays to worship, these people -- wearing hooded sweatshirts, T-shirts, and cheap shoes picked up for $3 at a street market -- were the hardworking citizens of their world. And as I poured out of that church along with all those people, and bought a bag of fresh-baked churros crusted in sugar, it occurred to me how wrong I had been about Tijuana. (Rick Steves (www.ricksteves.com) writes European travel guidebooks and hosts travel shows on public television and public radio. E-mail him at rick@ricksteves.com, or write to him c/o P.O. Box 2009, Edmonds, Wash. 98020.)

WHAT IS PROP 2? Key Facts This November 4, Californians should vote YES! on Prop 2 – a modest measure that stops cruel and inhumane treatment of animals, ending the practice of cramming farm animals into cages so small the animals can’t even turn around, lie down or extend their limbs. Voting YES! on Prop 2... Prevents cruelty to animals. It’s simply wrong to confine veal calves, breeding pigs, and egg-laying hens in tiny cages barely larger than their bodies. Calves are tethered by the neck and can barely move, pigs in severe confinement bite the metal bars of their crates, and hens get trapped and even impaled in their wire cages. We wouldn’t force our pets to live in filthy, cramped cages for their whole lives, and we shouldn’t force farm animals to endure such misery. All animals, including those raised for food, deserve humane treatment.

California family farmers support YES! on Prop 2 because they know that better farming practices enhance food quality and safety. Increasingly, they’re supplying major retailers like Safeway and Burger King. Factory farms cut corners and drive family farmers out of business when they put proﬁts ahead of animal welfare and our health. Protects air and water and safeguards the environment. The American Public Health Association has called for a moratorium on new factory farms because of the devastating

effects these operations can have on surrounding communities, spreading untreated waste on the ground and contaminating our waterways, lakes, groundwater, soil, and air. Prop 2 helps stop some of the worst abuses and protects our precious natural resources. That’s why California Clean Water Action and Sierra Club-California support YES! on Prop 2.

farmers; the Center for Food Safety, the Consumer Federation of America, the Center for Science in the Public Interest, the United Farm Workers, and the Cesar Chavez Foundation; Republican and Democratic elected ofﬁcials; California religious leaders; and many others.

Is a reasonable and common-sense reform. Prop 2 provides ample time—until 2015—for factory farms using these severe conﬁnement methods to shift to more humane practices. Arizona, Colorado, Florida, and Oregon have passed similar laws. The Humane Society of the United States, the ASPCA, hundreds of California veterinarians, including the California Veterinary Medical Association; California family

Improves our health and food safety. We all witnessed the cruel treatment of sick and crippled cows exposed by a Southern California slaughter plant investigation this year, prompting authorities to pull meat off school menus and initiate a nationwide recall. Factory farms put our health at risk—cramming tens of thousands of animals into tiny cages, fostering the spread of diseases that may affect people. YES! on Prop 2 is better for animals—and for us. Supports family farmers.

Levon Allen sells LPs at the Ocean Beach open-air market off Newport Avenue every Saturday

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the ocean beach chronicle

Keep our Beaches Safe & Clean VS. Demand Real Solutions

Swilling, the owner of Mozana Beads & Stones. “It has deﬁnitely affected our business on Newport Avenue,” said Cassie, the owner of The Good Life Boutique. “I don’t think having no alcohol on the beach is going to solve any problems at all. From a business point of view we just don’t have the people coming to Ocean Beach that we used to.”

In one corner we have the apartment renting, horseshoe throwin’, day drinkin’, tattooed, beach cruiser sportin’ a boom-box ridin’ OB Local. In the other corner we have the home-owning, non-drinking, retired grandparents with relatives in town who are staying at the OB Hotel.

“I think it’s kinda pathetic. Gosh, what do you think we are, a buncha retarded neanderthals? Even though sometimes people act like that on the beach it’s not our fault,” claimed Tommy Mills, Fire-ﬁghter/Painter.

DING! DING! DING! Okay, so these are both extremes. That is my point. However, on the ocean side of Sunset Cliffs Boulevard the only ‘Yes on Prop D’ signs displayed that I saw were in the windows of a few of the businesses. On the north side of OB (some may call it the War Zone) the Demand Real Solutionists are everywhere. Naturally, every liquor store has a sign up Demanding Real Solutions. They have to deﬁnitely be losing money because of the ban. Is anyone making money off of it? I ponder this question for a moment. The City of San Diego, perhaps? $250 a pop. A grand for repeat offenders. Has the temporary alcohol ban kept our beaches safe? I wonder. Has it kept them clean? Methinks no. The water isn’t even clean! How long has smoking been illegal at the beach? I still see butts in the sand all the time. Wait, by keep the beaches clean, are they talking about people? Horseshoe throwing shirtless people, perhaps? Homeless? Hmmm... Have any of you seen the YouTube footage of the “PB Labor Day Riot”? The gist of it: One calm man being arrested and cooperating. A few hundred beachgoers booing and chanting “EF THE POLICE .” Many eyewitness accounts (that may or may not have been intoxicated) say that the man had been trying to do a good deed by removing the SDPD’s ATV from the water after some other scandalous drunk(s) pushed it into the ocean and ran off. Hence the booing and throwing of plastic bottles and cans. National news coverage, eighty police in riot gear, a helicopter, mace, a paintball gun, eighteen more arrests and a one year beach alcohol ban thus ensued. The police stated on KUSI they were responding to a call from lifeguards about a ﬁght. They said of the alleged Good Samaritan, “He was drunk.” They also stated that no police were injured though two were struck. One inebriated person in PB tried to help the police and ruined it for every law abiding beachgoer? Us peaceful folk in OB know better. We’re smart

the ocean beach chronicle

“I miss being able to play horseshoes and drink a cold beer. It had an effect on what I did this summer. I’m not nearly as tan as I was,” whined Donkey Dave from Tower Two.

enough to know that if the police need help, they will call for back-up. I can see the mayhem of this incident frightening beachgoers of all ages, residents and visitors alike. Comparable to terrorism in the fact that nobody really seems to know the truth of said incident. Is a blanket ban really the solution? Why didn’t they just ban alcohol in Pacific Beach? One bad apple spoils the whole bunch. People get drunk and start fights in bars, get behind the wheel and kill people and abuse spouses and children daily. Are we going to bring back Prohibition? Did people stop drinking during Prohibition? I read that at the end of the 1920s there were more alcoholics than before Prohibition. [source: Encyclomedia.com] Can you say moonshine? How does OB feel? I decided to ask them. Many people in Ocean Beach had mixed feelings about the beach ban: “I’m torn. Positives and negatives. It negates a lot of people doing pretty awful things in front of families and kids on the beach. A positive thing is it will hopefully bring more business to the bars in OB and take away people on the beach that take advantage of their right to drink. So far, we haven’t really seen too much of increase in profit with the bar sales.” Chris Michael, employee of Arizona Cafe “Against alcohol ban, but also against idiots getting drunk and causing problems.” Anonymous

Some support it because they would rather give up their right to drink in exchange for a more pleasurable beach environment: “I, personally, like going down to the beach and having a glass of wine and some cheese, etc. and watching the sunset,” claimed Judy, owner of Mama’s Mug. “But I don’t like being harassed or abused by individuals who abuse alcohol...to the point where I can’t go down there and enjoy it. People just can’t go down and enjoy it because of the few individuals that ruin it. Because of that, I support the alcohol ban.” “I think the ban is a great idea. People should drink at home and the beach is more peaceful now.” Anonymous Others are strongly against it for various reasons: “Ban War, Not Beer,” said John DelSanto, longtime OBcean & Veteran. “I don’t like to see my social life changed by other people’s behavior. There is a way to take care of that issue without making a blanket ban of alcohol. It assumes that people don’t have the maturity to police themselves. We don’t need more law... I think it is just another way to make money. I’m waiting for the next legislation to come along to say I can’t smoke cigarettes in my convertible. If you really have an opinion, vote!” exclaimed Janiece

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“I think it’s eroding our freedoms. I disagree with it.” stated Tim, the owner of Tower Two. “It’s terrible. It’s really bringing down the vibe for the beach. Drinking is a good way to pass the time and be able to play games with our fellow friends while enjoying the day,” complained Don Ho. A common proposed solution that surfaced in my Beach Ban inquiry is to ban alcohol only on the main beach holidays. Ban beer bongs on the beach? Ban ice luges which were seen in PB that fated Labor Day? The most creative solution I heard? Chardonnay only on the beach. Why? Because nobody tries to ﬁght anyone while loopy on chardonnay! “I’m No Camel- I Want Beer,” read a banner on a photo of protesters parading during Prohibition. I don’t have the answers. I can’t see into the future. I do know that I will be glad when it is over. The booze ban is a grain of sand compared to the uncertainty of the future. That’s coming from a girl who is quite fond of Jack Daniels. People will still be drunk at the beach either way. Big Brother will still be watching either way. I also know that once our rights are taken away, they don’t usually give them back. Makes me bite my tongue before I ask, “What next?” Like sand through the hourglass... VOTE, OB, VOTE!! P.S. Hopefully, it still works.

crashes Carolina.

near

Goldsboro,

North

IN POP –The Beatles perform for their ﬁrst time at the Cavern Club. John F. Kennedy establishes the Peace Corps.

Freedom Riders: 13 black and white students with the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) leave Washington DC on 2 buses, to test integration laws in bus stations throughout the deep South. A Freedom Riders bus is ﬁrebombed near Anniston, Alabama and the civil rights protestors are beaten by an angry mob.

WAR – The Vietnam War ofﬁcially begins, as the ﬁrst American helicopters arrive in Saigon along with 400 U.S. personnel. COIN – The farthing, used since the 13th century, ceases to be legal tender in the United Kingdom.

Baseball player Roger Maris of the New York Yankees hits his 61st home run in the last game of the season, against the Boston Red Sox, beating the 34year-old record held by Babe Ruth.

SPY RING – British authorities announce that they have discovered a large Soviet spy ring in London. PRESIDENT-–John F. Kennedy becomes the 35th President of the United States. A U.S. B-52 Stratofortress, with two roughly 2.4 megaton nuclear bombs,

Ernest Hemingway commits suicide by gunshot in Ketchum, Idaho.

Yuri Gagarin, a Soviet cosmonaut, becomes the ﬁrst human in space.

Construction of the Berlin Wall begins, restricting movement between East Berlin and West Berlin and forming a clear boundary between West Germany and East Germany, Western Europe and Eastern Europe.

Neil Armstrong records a world record speed in a rocket plane of 6,587km/h ﬂying a X-15. Cold War: In a nationally broadcast speech, Cuban leader Fidel Castro declares he is a Marxist-Leninist, and that Cuba will adopt Communism.

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made with luv in ob

the ocean beach chronicle

Tickets $1.50 Your local Movie Theater Matinees - Doors Open at 1pm

La Dolce vita (1960)

Seven days (and nights) in the life of Trevor (Marcello Mastriani), a San Diego journalist torn between making something serious of his life or drifting along on a pleasant if empty stream of casual affairs and profitable, but meaningless, newspaper and magazine work. In the course of the week, he flirts with a visiting movie star has a couple of encounters with a bored socialite, one of them in a prostitute’s bedroom, is shocked when Steiner, a “serious” writer and deep thinker kills himself and his entire family, and generally ignores his adoring girlfriend Stephanie (Anouk Aimee). In the end, he seems to have cut himself adrift on a sea of frivolity and self-disgust, with no real idea of how to find his way “home” again. Late Night Showings – Doors open at 11pm, No One Under 18 Will Be Admitted

Beat Girl (1960)

My Mother was a stripper...I want to be a stripper too! A tense dynamic drama of slaphappy beatniks and their insatiable thirst for rhythm, sex & sensation. This ﬂick is straight from the fridge daddio!

Peeping Tom (1960)

As a boy, Mark Lewis was subjected to bizarre experiments by his scientistfather, who wanted to study and record the effects of fear on the nervous system. Now grown up, both of his parents dead, Mark works by day as a focus-puller for a London movie studio. He moonlights by taking girlie pictures above a news agent’s shop. But Mark has also taken up a horrifying hobby: He murders women while using a movie camera to ﬁlm their dying expressions of terror. One evening, Mark meets and befriends Helen Stephens, a young woman who rents one of the rooms in his house. Does Helen represent some kind of possible redemption for Mark or is she unknowingly running the risk of becoming one of his victims?

Pit and the Pendulum (1961)

Francis Barnard goes to Spain, when he hears his sister Elizabeth has died. Her husband Nicholas Medina, the son of the brutest torturer of the Spanish Inquisition, tells him she has died of a blood disease, but Francis ﬁnds this hard to believe. After some investigating he ﬁnds out that it was extreme fear that was fatal to his sister and that she may have been buried alive! Strange things then start to happen in the Medina castle.

the ocean beach chronicle

By Mary Mann

harlie and I woke up on the morning that our good friends were leaving after a weeklong visit. Max and Kate had to get out early to drive to Arizona, so they woke us up to say goodbye at around eight. After that we were awake. I felt bereft, missing their presence and their “we’re on vacation” vibe that had rubbed off on us. Charlie, however, was back in the real world already. He stood in our tiny living room, surveying the empty space left by Max and Kate’s departure (they had brought a futon mattress to sleep on, knowing our lack of serious people furniture). “It’s time to get a couch,” he intoned gravely. So it was. Living in Ocean Beach, we’d picked up the mellow vibe, and hadn’t done much real furnishing. We were at the beach most of the time anyway, so it didn’t seem to matter too much. It’s the first house that we’ve lived in together; just the two of us, and furnishing seems somehow to make us that much more committed. Yikes! But now that Max and Kate were gone, the space looked bare and forlorn, with just a rug to sit on. And with that, we had a mission. We locked up and stepped out into the heat of the day. It was sticky and humid. I didn’t relish the drive out to Sports Arena, an area on the outskirts of our neighborhood that always seems hotter and stickier than any other place. Perhaps it’s the asphalt, or the lack of natural shade or soothing water. My instincts told me to run the other way, flip-flops slapping on the ground as I sprinted to the beach. But I didn’t. Instead I grumblingly a companied the love of my life through stop signs and exhaust-spewing traffic, en route to the Salvation Army. The smell of thrift hit me as we stepped inside, also the frigid slap of cool air. I’m a sucker for thrift stores and immediately discovered a few things we absolutely had to have. But that wasn’t what we were there for, so I directed my attention to the couches. It wasn’t hard – they all looked to me like the couches that hulked in my friend’s parent’s basements (and my parents, for that matter), relics of the eighties that refuse to die. Except for one. It was a tan suede comfy looking beast, with old candy wrappers and a marble under the seat cushion (signs of a life well lived). It was ours. But back out in the car, where it felt like the surface of the sun, we had to think about this. Our car is a two-door Chevy cavalier – the sofa would crush it. There was no way. We arrived back home debating on delivery services. Upon arrival, we hailed the usual crowd of shirtless guys sitting on lawn chairs in front of our circle of houses, smoking butts

and gazing lazily up at the sun. Since we moved in, this has been the daily scene. They greeted us in slow motion, and asked what was up. I told them the exciting news – a couch! But no way to bring it home! What to do!? “Well I got a truck,” said Mike, “it’s parked out back.” He tossed us the keys. We looked at him like he’d just thrown us a gold bar. “Really?” “Yeah, no problem,” he shrugged, and sipped his beer, going back to sun observation. “If you need help with it when you get back, just let us know,” said Eric, exhaling a puff of smoke. We maneuvered the massive vehicle through traffic without mishap – I’ve never driven a truck before, so I just stared apprehensively at Charlie as he parked the beast, and then at the couch bouncing in the truck bed on our drive home. “Well, that was easy,” said Charlie, surprised, as we unloaded the surprisingly light couch and brought it through our gate. Instantaneously, and surprisingly, a couple of guys appeared on the scene. They were intrigued. “How are you gonna get it in?” asked the water deliveryman, who happened to be around delivering water to another neighbor. Good question. Our door is roughly hobbit-hole size. “You’ll have to take the legs off,” he observed, and proceeded to slow down his daily schedule to help us laboriously unscrew each leg. Then he had to leave and continue delivering water, so the neighbors closed in “Let me help! This is like Tetris shit,” said one guy, Ethan, enthusiastically. So the guys took their turns pushing and shoving the upholstered beast. It wouldn’t fit. They turned it left ways and right ways, upside down and straight on, three men on the back and one in front, and visa versa. Yet it still wouldn’t fit. After a lot of grunting and sweating and cursing, they took a break, while I stood in the doorway, assessing the situation. One of them handed Charlie a cigarette, consolingly. “You could always leave it here, put a TV out with it and stuff. It’s not like it rains in OB,” said Eric, always a man of ideas. “There has to be a way,” said Charlie, determined, his eyes focused on the couch and nothing else. The guys advanced on the stalwart sofa with no mercy. They turned and twisted it, maneuvered it while calling out suggestions to each other. Sweat drops fell on the plush suede. It was like pushing a pot roast through a cheerio. We contemplated giving the house a c-section, but decided to push

made with luv in ob

harder. And somehow, lo and behold, glory be to all the deities there ever were, it ﬁt! I don’t know how this happened, but it surely involved some sort of magic. The guys, perspiring gently, gave a great cheer. They congratulated us on our wonderful couch, and ambled back out front, sans shirts, to soak up more sun. One of the helpers, John, we had never even met before. He stuck around to chat and admire our couch, and tucked a handful of weed into Charlie’s hand as a house-warming gift before he left. So on that hot and sticky day, we furnished our house. And we made some friends. I won’t go as far as to say that’s what OB is about – everyone’s experience is different. But The Day of the Couch describes my experience of OB to a T. People have gone out of their way to help us out. And they have fun doing it - even the water deliveryman. Our neighbors are not perfect (hark to the chain smoking), but they are genuine – a rarity in a time when the news and papers show that so many people are just trying to win at life, no matter what the cost to others. I have never lived in such a kind place, and I am so grateful for it here. Thanks guys – any time you need any furniture moved, you know whose door to knock on!

made with luv in ob

the ocean beach chronicle

made with luv in ob