I've moved into my own place today, in Venice,

two short blocks from the beach, so I went down there to check it out at night. The moon was nearly full, the sand had the low glow of residual sunlight. Lumpen sleeping bags appeared one by one under the palm trees just off the promenade, once you started looking for them. As I crossed the sand I heard one of the Venice beachbum ‘drum circles’ I had heard about from Cheray, a gorgeous poet from Queens that was at Ron's party last night.

Venice got hippies, then.

The moon slid behind transparent sheets of tiger-print clouds. Santa Monica pier blazed in the distance. Waves crashed, a toddler shrieked, the drummers drifted in and out of syncopation.

A flashlight flicked back and forth across me twice. Behind me somewhere, and pretty close. A few seconds later it was at it again, scanning the beach, strobing off the sand. Police?... Aww, no, really?

I heard –

‘SHOW YOURSEYLF!’

A pause.

‘SHOW YOURSEYLF!!! BE A MAN!!!’

Strong country American accent. Crazy sounding.

The torch started scanning again. It found me, I looked directly into it. Then the torch moved off, along with the voice

‘SHOW YOURSEYYYYLF!!!! BEEEE A MAIN!!!’

The drums and tide continued unabated.

I’m really marvelling at this place. Marvelling at how much it seems to suit me and the degree to which the experience has inspired me, I would never have guessed, would never have imagined it would be like this.

The wide, spotless beach, with the kitschy pier in Santa Monica that’s always alight, the palm trees, the freaks. The skatepark and graffiti wall by the beach in Venice. The stars that share the big skies with the private planes and police helicopters. Feeling like you might be in one of the top places in the world, and almost feeling embarrassed to feel that way about America, like reluctantly realising I might have been wrong all along.