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June 24, 2009
This Sunday, my consciousness caught up with the calendar, and it finally felt like summer. (Yes, I know that Sunday was technically only summer’s first day, but June 21 has always seemed absurdly late to me. You cannot tell me that May actually counts as spring, at least in this part of the world.)

Ventura Pier 6344.5, originally uploaded by Kurt Preissler.

Do you notice that the older you get, the harder it is to really feel each of the seasons? Maybe it’s a side effect of prolonged indoor desk time, but I’m pretty sure that my chronobiology has been out of sync all year.

Anyway, June snuck up on me on the boardwalk over Ventura Beach. Ventura’s about an hour north of L.A. proper, one of California’s innumerable beach towns, and a sleepy place unless you’re a surfer. Nothing but waves and wind and sunshine. So I sat my little self on one of those benches, watched the water, and successfully lost track of time. We laughed at the hyperactive dad trying to teach his kid to surf, and the people with the hiking poles who seemed to have confused the boardwalk (see pavement, above) with the Appalachian Trail.

Funny, really. I spent a lot of holidays on that beach, unwillingly, when I was 13 or 14. My family liked it because it was quiet and not overrun with teenagers. I hated it because it was quiet and not overrun with teenagers, and would much rather have been at Zuma (Tower 12, yeah!) with sixty of my closest friends. But this weekend it was just about perfect.

Sunburn Update: My forehead and right arm are now sort of russet, while my left arm is an interesting shade of fuchsia, and the rest of me remains your basic paste color. One day I will learn the mysteries of this thing called “sunscreen.”

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