I had an opportunity to visit one of my favorite ashtrays this past weekend. Sorry, I mean beaches.
And by opportunity, I mean funeral.
Did your 94 year old grandfather have a doormat like this one?
No? Well, I guess there's no accounting for taste.
This particular doormat is very close to a beautiful stretch of beach down in Malibu.
Between errands, I convinced my mother to give me 20 minutes at said beach to, well, do whatever it is that I do. I hastily arranged this collection on a towel back at my hotel room - thought it might be in poor taste to drag my sandy bags of trash to the services. Nevermind that we could have used a censor, or a bleeping machine during the eulogies, and I'll skip over the one about how he may or may not have had a hand in a friend spending the better part of a year in jail, as well as the retelling of a few of my grandfather's unapologetically racist quips by the staff at Woodlawn Cemetery in Santa Monica (nicest guys) - but don't worry, they were the best-intentioned kind of racist stories. Sigh. At any rate, I didn't dare taint the day with my own personal garbage.
You know, respect.
So, I dedicate this one to you Malibu Bob, thanks for the gamma rays. RIP