Admittedly the reason I came here was Black Flag.
I wanted to see where Robo and Chavo drank malt liquor.
But where did Rollins write all that black coffee poetry?
And what's this "Strand" where Keith Morris was so wasted?
I found The Strand.
It's the beachfront boardwalk, sans boards.
Before renting a sublet, I had romantic visions of crashing a few nights here on the beach. And getting stabbed to death. So I rented a sublet.
Dig the frozen surfer.
Gateway to the pier and the Surfers Hall of Fame.
Whoa! A one-legged surfer. Hang five, brah!
On the beach kids went sand sledding.
In the water the surfers carved waves.
Some goony fisherman gave me odd eyes.
Back on The Strand an elderly woman rode a longboard holding an umbrella.
Leggy volleyball players practiced their digs and kills.
Some skaters convened on foot.
Their acid had begun to kick in.
One kid attempted to skate.
He lost his balance immediately.
His board rocketed across the strand.
He tried again with a similar outcome.
And He Was.
Ordered a shrimp-stuffed avocado at a dive bar.
The bartender was a hot-tongued, flighty woman who would disappear for moments on end.
A dude came in to pick up the chain wallet he left there the other night, but strangely chose not to pick it up.
So the bartender went through it, and announced its contents to the snickering patrons.
Decided to check out nearby Manhattan Beach.
A tonier, upscale beach lined with salons.
No nosey dive bars or blotter-eating skate punks.
What they lack in riff raff delights they make up for in good coffee and a free aquarium.
Black Flag's old rehearsal space - a flophouse church featured in Decline of Western Civilization - has been turned into a gastropub. I decided to dine there.
The sun set through the enormous modern loft.
Punk graffiti artfully produced on the walls.
90s mall punk streamed at a tasteful volume.
I ordered prawns, pao de queijo and a craft beer.
What else can you do?
When Robo and Chavo lived here, the rent was $16/month.
My bill came to twice that.