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Dog Beach on a Sunday
Sunday, November 1 1998
Kim and I woke up early as always, had sex, and then didn't wake up again until noon. It was one of those hangover days when the only real workable cure for the blahs is marijuana and wholesome all-natural food, at least if you follow Kim's philosophy of life. Yesterday (I forgot to mention) we cured the blahs at a Sri-Chimoy cult-controlled vegetarian restaurant on Adams Avenue (a disturbing Heaven's Gate-like calm pervades the place, though Kim didn't seem to notice). Today we obtained the nutritional component of our hangover cure down in Ocean Beach. We ordered sandwiches and a smoothie at an ultra-hippie hole in the wall restaurant. The people, the music and the decorations inside were so stereotypical it was actually kind of embarrassing. At least the girl who waited on me, with her long straight blond hair, flowing hippie dress and nose ring, didn't say "groovy" or address me as "bro." I worried a little about the long scraggly beard hairs of the sandwich-making hippie; they swung perilously low over the food.
After we'd eaten our sandwiches we walked north along the beach to Dog Beach. The rotting headless seal was gone from where I'd seen him yesterday but the seaweed nearby smelled bad in a salty sort of way.
Sophie meets a small black poodle on Dog Beach.
All kinds of dogs frolic along the Pacific shore.
Dog Beach was a canine madhouse. It seemed like a good fraction of dog-owning San Diego was there, and I was most entertained by the spectacle of so many different dogs racing around, making introductions, and occasionally fighting and then being scolded by their owners. The Pacific Ocean was flowing up the San Diego River towards Mission Valley in seeming defiance of gravity, so I asked Kim how a river could flow backwards. She thought maybe the Pacific Ocean had too much water in it, but she never said the word "tides."
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