When I was young, I always wanted to live in Palm Springs. Now it seems like I actually do. Summer in Malibu used to end after Labor Day. The Malibu Triathlon pushed things back a few weeks, but by Oct. 1, the invading hordes always departed back to the Far East. This year, even winter weekends in our sleepy town have devolved into a bad Shakira video. Malibu is the new Miami.
In the Grail legends of King Arthur, the health of the land was always tied to the moral character of the king. The state of our country, and Malibu particularly, has become a wasteland. Hot, dry winds blast down the canyons. We run our air conditioners in January. Yesterday, I searched in vain for any small parking place along PCH, everywhere between Moonshadows and Neptune’s Net.
Out on the road today, I saw a Pearl Jam sticker on an Escalade…