The Beach Cures and a Blogger Reflects

Ah, OK, it's not so bad. Everyone went to Manhattan Beach yesterday, swam in the breakers, rode waves, Belly played in the sand, Plottie channeled his Inner Teenager, bronzed and handsome (he's a writer, he's got imagination), and in the process it dawned on Plot that the world is not only not ending, but it's really a lot of fun at the beach in this crazy town. Maybe PD and 5H will save some money in the East and then come home, buy a beach house next to the Manhattan Beach Pier and everyone will move in and, maestro, cue the reggae soundtrack.

The Great Plotnik is aware that a blogger can either hide his daily joys and/or sorrows, or he can go ahead and write about them while the feelings are pure and real, determined to try and learn about himself from the process of putting emotions into words.

Novelists wait until they've analyzed everything and figured out the story line; Plottie writes first and tries to be as honest as he can without hurting anyone's feelings. Later, he tries to figure out what he was really talking about, like analyzing a dream, where nothing is what it appears to be but everything is about that one thing. What is that one thing?

Right now, Monday morning, the bottom line is that Plot and Duck are feeling better. Nothing important is changing, only location, location, location. Who needs Buenos Aires when you've got Providence? Does Lisbon really have better views than Brooklyn?

And that halfway point between the two: somewhere in Connecticut. Ah, Connecticut. What the f___ is up with that T in the middle?

This morning, the girls will do girl stuff with Asian women in salons. The boy, Plotnik, will hang around and hopefully get in some guitar time with BZWZ, and maybe go to the ballgame tonight with PD, or, if not, eat some more shrimp tacos. Viva la vida loca.