I had a morning of basically waiting to get on a plane, so I rang up Lizzie on a whim. We hadn’t shot together in, like..forever and keep promising to, so..who knows? Lizzie’s game. And Noah Montes had to hop off the Island to keep Island Fever at bay so..sure, pick you up and lets see what’s what over at Venice.
First, a bit of La Isla Bonita for brunch and then straight to the Venice Beach Skate Park. ((More on that in a later post.)) But Lizzie tempted me with Gonzo’s, which I had heard of and actually heard of again recently from a local chum who happens to live behind Gonzo’s and had been yammering about getting a session there together. Well..this was too good. Stopped by my chum’s place — but of course he’s away. Didn’t think he’d be around, so we start scouting a bit for any front yard that looks unkempt.
A friendly neighbor takes to Lizzie’s charms and clandestinely whispers instructions. It’s over *there..no, around *that way..wink-nudge-wink-wink. Something about a garbage can and be careful.
We find it and SEAL-Team-6 our way over a ratty, crumbly garage, across limp tar paper roof that, at any moment, would surely give way to short but rusty-nail-scraping drop into who-knows-what-all. We shimy down the sad, lonely Palm tree feeling out way through a drop that looked like it was at least 6 feet but turns out to be about four inches so that, once down Lizzie is basically standing looking straight at us as if she didn’t even get any lower than when she was squirming and swinging over the edge and doing lots of “you guuyss..umm…where’s the bottom??”
And that’s it. We’re in the backyard of a fabulous low-slung ranch style deal that I’m sure saw its share of swingin’ grotto-y parties back in the day. It’s 70s sexy. And it’s got a dry pool begging to be carved up. FTW.
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