Malibu: please hold for the money shot

I’m not going to lie: I felt all kinds of fancy when I was driving to Malibu. It didn’t even matter that I was doing so in a dusty Corolla for manual labor purposes.

We would be staying right off the Pacific Coastal Highway in the Point Dume home of Rob’s Aunt’s boyfriend. This gentleman is a small business owner who was putting the finishing touches on a warehouse nearby. He spent his days peddling herbal concoctions to the financially blessed West Coast health-conscious (like a brain stimulant that didn’t contain caffeine!, but that might have actually contained caffeine...), and business was good.

A surge in high-volume orders prompted an expansion of headquarters, which Rob had helped build in a previous trip. This time, he would be doing the electrical wiring. 

He was slightly put off when I asked him to swear that he knew how to do that legally.

***

I don’t know how to do that legally, so what was my task during this Malibu stint? To relax and rejuvenate. Granted, I would be relaxing with the rest of the working poor on public beach access, but this did not diminish my Malibu spirit.

When we got to Malibu, we drove over to Zuma Beach (think Baywatch) to witness the rest of the sunset. Before we could reach the point, however, two hefty black men flagged us down.

“Please stop where you are. You may proceed after they film this shot. 

The lighting is just right. Thanks.”

Rob, who would rather not devote an ounce of patience on the entitled, was displeased. We had just paid to park, but were told we could not park on account of the money shot. Luckily, the small window of money shot opportunity translated into a small wait.

They had a point. The lightning was indeed just right. 

The next day, Dodger and I made a trip to Solstice Canyon in the Santa Monica Mountains while Rob went to earn his keep. A hike through the valley culminated in the ruins of the Tropical Terrace Mansion, where an eccentric lived with his family (and his giraffes) until a fire swept through in the 80s.

The mansion, which was built into a waterfall and profound in its heyday,
is in there somewhere. 

The mountain staircase I only made him go halfway up, on account
of the 10,000 degree weather and him being a husky.

Dodger goes ignorant places when I'm tethered to him. 

Perched and beat. 

Dodger and I spent the rest of the day stalking through the Point Dume neighborhood like stealth paparazzi. Huge, tinted escalades whizzed around curbs and through stop signs. When I heard them coming, I hid my camera and stared straight ahead through my oversized sunglasses. Hopefully Dodger looked extra dangerous and refrained from peeing on some $10,000 landscape until the witness to my yard lurking had sped off.

A fine entrance. 

Also very pretty, but the effect was often ruined when they surrounded their homes with numerous
signs that promised an armed response to anyone breathing near their property. 

The next day, Rob had to take care of a spare tire issue in an affordable town about an hour’s drive away. Instead of going with, I had him drop me at a remote beach so I could have the 

Great West Coast Beach Experience. 

I’d take the Atlantic any day (as I’m all about a beach whose water temperature exceeds 35 degrees on most given days), but the Pacific tidal pools are fantastic.

Kelp, which is part of the Great West Coast Beach Experience

The smallest, most iridescent crab

Crusty purple urchin

When Rob returned, we headed back to Zuma with a 12-pack and watched a crazy Frenchman cliff jump, repeatedly, off a big rock.

After he fell down, he would climb the face back up and do it all over again. And again and again. 

I PASS ON THIS. 

An expensive bone that Dodger buried somewhere out there when we were
watching the jumping mad man. 

A staircase made of tires.

On the third, and supposedly final, day, Rob’s aunt (who had joined us in Malibu and would be driving seven hours with us to San Francisco to save on air fare), proclaimed that if we wanted to stay in Malibu for another day, she sure wouldn’t fight us! This was code for: we will be staying in Malibu for another day. You’re welcome.

We were ready for a change but hesitated to complain, as there are worse fates than being stuck in Malibu (as Iowa demonstrated). So, we found a beach that allowed fun on it (“fun” being dogs, booze, and grill fire), parked on the PCH to avoid a crappy $16 daily use fee, and spent the day harassing the dog.

Please meet Rob's parachute pants. They serve to complement this
poor treatment of Dodger. 

HAHAHA

Ears back. So pissed. 

And the disrespect continues. 

That night, we watched some designer's clothing photo shoot. Nothing looks more awkward than having to make out with an actor, fully dressed, in a cold ass ocean with a 25-person crew directing you. It was still intriguing, though. 

On account of their setting up shop in close proximity to the restroom (trailers, models, stylists, slave crew, snack bar), I got to scope out the operation every time I had to pee.

Scripted hanky-panky. 

Malibu was exotic, but in an odd way. There are no “everyday” stores. People don’t come here to grocery shop and buy office supplies. The community is isolated: each house is equipped with a security fence bigger than the next, and a mean dog will always greet you out front. Malibu is a symphony of pissed off barking dogs, and there isn’t a thing anyone can do about it. 

Buy some ear plugs. 

The town is alive with Hispanic labor during the day: they hop a bus in, walk to homes where they clean and landscape and construct, eat at the food carts for lunch, and then hop a bus back home at night. The Malibu rich didn't seem to do public mornings/afternoons/early-evenings unless it involved an SUV and a juice bar. 

As for celebrity sightings? None that we consciously acknowledged. Everyone looks like they could be someone around these parts. Stick around long enough, and you’re bound to scope one leaving a Starbucks or walking drunk and half naked up the street (or so residents assured us). We never saw our MacGuyver neighbor either, but his dog hated our dog something fierce.

Malibu may not welcome visitors with open arms, but one thing was clear: it was undeniably beautiful. 

The runner and the whale. 

Next stop: Fairfax, California. There was a rental treehouse that needed sprucing up.