Not just for my sanity, but to remedy the whole “deserted” thing. Chicks dig beach volleyball. They’re bound to drop by.
Just ask my friend Jeff, who wisely suggested when I first moved to LA that we take beach volleyball lessons. “It’s a skill everyone who lives here should have,” said Jeff. Truth.
Every Saturday morning, we rode our bikes to Second Street in Manhattan Beach, where the aptly-named Steve Ijams taught classes. It was fun to experience something all-new, and progress each week, until one day when I unknowingly walked across the court during drills and a ball slammed hard into my face. To which Steve shouted, “Hey Matt, how’d that taste?!”
Not yummy, Steve. A harsh lesson about keeping my head on a swivel at all times. I also learned that sand gets EVERYWHERE on your body. You can shower multiple times, and still, the day after a game, you’ll wake up with sand on your pillow that has been lodged in your ear canal.
So yes, Leo, I feel your pain. Though yours is a bit worse thanks to the rag that is the New York Post.
