Another gorgeous morning in Ocean Beach, California. I was awakened to the lite tapping of on my arm by my furry companion (mind out of the gutter now) who was informing me that it was time to perform the duties for which I was being retained. In an effort to stall for time I reached out and started to scratch him behind the ears (gutter... out!) when the alarm went off. It's Sunday so I sleep in late (6:15am), got up, served the master (*sigh* fine, stay in the drainage), popped on some workout clothing and headed to the gym. The ribs are still a little tender so only a moderate aerobic workout today. After my weekly purchases at the Von's next to the gym I came home and began preparations for breakfast. That's when it happened.
Tap, tap, tap.
I turned and was confronted by my recently reacquainted friend Oscar Wilde. As usual he was dressed to kill (well, for a 19th century dandy).
"My dear professor (as he likes to call me against my protestations), what are you doing?"
"Making breakfast" I replied over the whirl of the coffee grinder.
Oscar walked, no, minced, around the kitchen with a look slightly above that of disgust. "Dear one, it's Sunday. A beautiful Sunday morning. Not a cloud in the sky. The young master and I were staring out the window you so graciously left open watching the local parrots gathering in the trees across the street. The wireless announced something called an 'active surf' and as you so generously left your computer-thingy turned on I, how does one say, "Googled" what this meant. The discovery brought such a laugh of joy that the maître blanc scampered from the office."
OK, now I was puzzled. When one's delusions confound them it probably means more sessions in therapy. So, being a bit blunt I asked him "Say what?"
"Think about it. You're the mathematician in this little ménage a trois, apply that disgusting L-word".
"Lesbian?"
"Logic dear fellow. What does an active surf bring to the shores near that restaurant at which we dine most Sunday mornings?"
"Kelp?"
Oscar's sigh of exasperation was overly dramatic (but then again, this is Oscar Wilde I'm projecting). "Surfers! While your libido has decreased mine, sir, has not. And while you do go out from time-to-time my, shall we say, personal time is spent looking at back issues of Têtu. I want to get out and see, as you Americans would say, 'the real thing'. After all, Aphrodite brought Galatea to life, not recreated as a daguerreotype. Besides, we have much to speak about." Oscar looked me up and down. "We shall not dress for breakfast."
So I picked up the book of Oscar's letters and headed for Shades, requesting outdoor seating. Per our usual breakfasts we had Irish oatmeal, fruit (naturally) and coffee. And I read. The part of his correspondences I'm on cover the time of Oscar's relationship with Lord Alfred Douglas ("Bosie"). Even after 110 years the feelings are palpable. And after each letter I "spoke" with Oscar, pausing a time or two only to enjoy the views that would present themselves from time to time as the young, tanned surfers would run across the sand to the swells of surf.
An hour later it was time to leave, Oscar and I both having our fill of that which we each needed. On the walk back we were greeted with a fantastic site of one young "dude" (Oscar always laughs when I use that word as he says it does not "fit" me but I say it in such a scandalous manner that I should use it more often) in that perfect age of life where growing up in southern California can bring forth the perfect body... and he knew it for he was showing off as much as possible without being arrested.
Oscar looked at me and smiled. Damn, I hate it when he's right.
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