Being from the East Coast, I feel a natural opposition to many things “California”. Sometimes, I start to feel guilty about how much I rag on the Golden State. Then I sit behind a young blonde driving her 80 year old boyfriend’s convertible, admiring her new lip injections in the rear view mirror, fully stopped at a green light.
Nevertheless, I have decided that I need to experience a bit more of the “culture”, so that at least my derogatory comments have merit and possibly an amusing backstory. And what better way to familiarize myself with SoCal life than by spending some quality time with the creature it’s most known for: The Surfer.
The title of this post is a misnomer as well as an opportunity for alliteration; If I were actually desperate to meet a surfer I would ask someone to kindly take me out to pasture and shoot me between the eyes.