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AJC.com > Metro > View from the cop > Archives > 2008 > November > 19
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
View from the Cop
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
San Diego is a cool place if you’ve never been. There is plenty to do and even in November, the weather is really good; 80’s and a lot of sunshine.
But during a recent visit there for a conference I noticed another side to the city. San Diego has some of the world’s worst drivers—yes, even compared to us.
I was stationed in San Diego when I got out of the Navy a few years back — well, a lot of years — when the Rolling Stones were on only their fourth farewell tour and before Joan Rivers looked Asian.
I have fond memories of San Diego, especially when I lived in Ocean Beach, or O.B. We had an old apartment, furnished with the latest fashionable cinder blocks and the obligatory ceramic Buddha that sat in the corner of the living room. It was yellow which perfectly complemented the orange shag carpet.
There were three of us living there. We shared one car, a 1960 Ford Falcon, orange in color, jacked up in the back with chrome-reverse wheels and a see-through floorboard on the driver’s side. It was a four speed—the shifter knob had long since fallen off and for some reason never replaced. Most of the time it started but just in case, we always parked it on a hill when we could. We called it “The Orange Flame.”
Living at the beach meant I was obligated to learn to surf. I never did. I could momentarily stand up on the board but could never master the cool look of running into the water with my surfboard.
The local surfers had way too much cool blond hair and therefore looked flawless running into surf, throwing the board out in front, leaping onto the board, and then paddling away. When I ran, my hair stood straight up and stayed that way. I looked like a rooster.
The first time I tried the cool run to the water, I ran too fast, fell over front ways, dug the tip of the surfboard into the sand which catapulted me another 10 feet or so face-down into the kelp. I got up like I meant to do it—you know, ha-ha and all, ran out into the surf where I threw the board down into the water, jumped on it, slid off, and met Mr. Jellyfish.
If you’ve ever had the pleasure, you know this hurts—hurts bad. One remedy for Jellyfish stings is to cover the welts with ammonia. As bad as I hurt I was a bit timid of asking someone to pee on my leg.
I had forgotten how much fun we used to have there. The civilians hated us, we had no money, and spent way too much time on unproductive things such as the time we stayed way too late in an Ocean Beach bar and then, for some reason, thought it was a good idea to drive south and invade Mexico.
Fortunately, the Tijuana cops were nice enough to return us to the border after a generous donation to their “Policeman’s Ball” by way of all the money we had left in our pockets.
If you go to San Diego, and then onto Ocean Beach, stop at HoDads, a bar and grill on Newport Street. They have the world’s largest tuna fish sandwich and you can sit facing the open window, right next to the sidewalk. (They call it O.B. T.V.) If you like the Parade of Weirdness, this is your place.
It was nice to visit but between worrying about everything burning up or falling into the earth on the next big earthquake, I might be better off here with just the pollen, coyotes, and ice storms to contend with.
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