Dog-Boy and the Fall of Love
yonder Sun in the east begins the day
I was walking along the beach this morning, August 14, 2003 at seven a.m.,
getting my mind
right before I went off to work. I was moving south along the edge of the
water, watching as
the eastern sun broke through the clouds east of Soledad. Surf was small,
there were about five
board riders enjoying themselves in the three foot waves. I walked over
to the pumphouse, at the
foot of Kolmar Street where it intersects Neptune Place. As I got closer,
I saw a makeshift dwelling,
ostensibly created for protection from the sun and a place for the denizens
to hang with their bros
and bras, sipping the liquid. A good place to be when not immersed in the
70 degree water, trying not
to get too burned from the 90 degree air as we lounge through these
heatstroke days. As I stood there
looking at it, my thoughts returned to yesteryear, specifically to around
1976 and the shack that
Dog-Boy had created amongst the rocks at Simmons Point for his beach-front
residence.
hamlet
to the actual shack at the foot of Bon Air. Still, it was sufficient for the boy-Dog's needs. As I recount
this story, I do so with affection, for there were many traits in the early Dog-Boy that enamored him to us all.
It was his later incarnation, during his period of surf notoriety, that he became obnoxious and unbearable and
worthy of ridicule. Therefore, I will refer to him by his initials, "DB" which in the aftermath of his Rock
performance, were spoken in soliciting sounds of sensuality by his acolytes. His detractors would pronounce it,
"duuuuh buuuuh," ending the words with their tongue hanging limply through open mouth accented by a slight tremor
of the face. Understanding that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, DB ignored these morons.
The classic white spanish style house, as it has for decades, sat at the
top of the cliff, overlooking Simmons
and Little Point. Truly one of the great houses in La Jolla for those who
enjoy the salt air and pounding of the
surf to enhance their health. At this time, Gene Klein was the property
owner. I understand that he earned his money
with a motion picture studio in Los Angeles. He also
had some excellent race horses. But his claim to fame in
San Diego was his majority interest in the San Diego Charger Football Club.
His hatred for Al Davis helped to fuel
the bitter rivalry with the Oakland Raiders that still dominates those
games. Al Davis's facade is forever etched with
the enmity that filled his body during those years of turmoil.
the Klein house at Little Point
a lighted tennis court south of his house along the cliff. His neighbors objected. Gene retaliated by divesting
himself of the property which became the site of three crowded homes overlooking the beach at Simmons. His karma
haunted him through his lifetime. The Charger club, under Don Coryell, should have won the Super Bowl in 79, 80 or 81,
except Gene would not compensate his players, and so the likes of Fred Dean and John Jefferson departed the town.
DB was an unwitting part of the Klein karma, although DB's lack of wit would constitute an indictment of the San Diego City School
system, except that his lack of attendance at school voids any blame that may be placed on those institutions of excellence.
Fall. I place the year as 1976. But don't hold me to it. The short-term
memory is already gone, the long-term is gradually
following. I am sure it was after my move to the Neptune Beach house.
Football season. Gene is staying in Beverly Hills,
or Rancho Santa Fe or in Hades. Who knows? Not I. We all love beaches,
otherwise why are we living here? It is a tradition
to cruise the beaches to see what there is to see. To check the surf, the
birds, the kids, the Bettes. Bette' with the european accent? Bette'
is a name
for an attractive lady. A person can start his day at the Pumphouse, hanging
with the homeboys, drinking some beer or grape
juice or bottled water. Just drinking something because of the hot sun and
sand and the pounding taken in the Shorebreak or the Right
Hook. After a while, he wants to walk down to Sea Lane to see his friends
hanging out down there. Maybe grab another beer and
jump in the shorebreak at Sea Lane. And during the walk, he checks out
the attractions along the way.
strolling amongst the rocks
I'm walking with Frank and Bobbie, maybe Mike, and we make it to the rocks
at Little Point. There is a cut palm frond stretched
across some rocks, creating a shade. We look into the shadows, wondering
if some lady and her sweetheart might be in there,
but we see only DB, napping. A shout wakes him up, he crawl into the sunlight
and bums a drink and cigarette from Mike. Says
the Santa Ana winds and heat drove him to the beach two nights ago and
he's been sleeping here during the heat of the day
and surfing the morning and evening glass offs at the reefs. Asked about
showering and drinking water, he says he uses the hose
at the Klein house 'cuz the place appears empty. We exchange pleasantries
and continue on our way, DB crawling back into the shade.
Sunset, two days later I make the same trek, alone. This time the palm
branch has fallen to the sand, no DB in sight. As I walk
on the higher rocks below the Klein house, I look up toward the house and
see DB sitting on a lounge chair, drink on a table, the sun
baking his skin. He waves me up the dirt path and I join him on the lawn
overlooking the rocks and beach below.
"What are you doing here?"
"Watching the place?"
"Where's Klein?"
"With the Lightning Boys." Reference to the Charger team.
"Does he know you're here?"
DB's inimitable smile spreads across his face [this was before the fight
on Maui where he lost
his front tooth and replaced it with the Silver Snake from the dentist in
Lahaina], as he leans back and points to a young
senorita who is walking from the house with a clear glass filled with ice
cubes and an unopened bottle of Coors.
"She does." Mexican girl. Probably nineteen going on thirty. Dark hair.
Dark eyes that draw you into their depths and
you lose your bearings. I could sense all this and I knew where DB was
in this turn on the road of his Life. We've all been
there. Some of us never make it back. The spanish sensuality, mixed
with the mexican indian, and it takes you places
they never talked about in that health education class in the eighth grade.
DB was early twenties, his name not made, his groupies
still in the elementary school playing hopscotch, not drinking it, and his
sexual experience limited mostly to his hands.
But here he was, sitting on the lawn overlooking the reefs, sipping the
colorado waters, prepping himself for a hot night
with the lady from the Sonora desert. She handed him the glass and bottle
and spoke to me in spanish.
In second grade at La Jolla Elementary School I learned uno, dos, tres,
cafe, blanco, siesta and a host of other words
which escaped my consciousness in the third grade. I understood her "cerveza,"
and I declined it because I don't drink in
the daytime, a habit I picked up in rebellion to the trait of my little
league baseball coach.
banking off the reefs' creation at sunset
sunset at DB's new digs
TO BE CONTINUED