On Sunday morning I got a wake-up call at 8:12. It was Rolando Relic, the trombone player and only dude in our band, FAB. Figuring that there must be a good reason for him to beat my own mother in setting a new record calling me so early on a Sunday, I answered the phone. "Do you want to go to the beach?" he asked. "When?" I replied, worried that he was already parked in front of my apartment building. Offering to drive the 40 miles to Malibu and giving me a 30-minute window to get ready, Rolando Relic convinced me to join him on his spontaneous excursion to the beach that day.
With me on his team, we recruited Devilish Diaconescu, who, three days prior, had returned from a two-month sojourn in Berlin. "You're in front of my house?" was our fellow bandmate's response when I called. The Romanian rock chick had only 30 seconds to get ready. She outdid Sienna Miller with a SoCal-inflected interpretation of Edie Sedgwick, tucking her platinum locks under a newsboy cap and slipping on a striped jersey with a screenprint of Andy Warhol's banana and sexy cutouts on the sleeves.
I had to catch a photo of her buying coffee at the quaint Susina on Beverly Boulevard. It was as if Devilish Diaconescu had never left Europe. We continued the Continentals-enjoying-a-morning-at-the-beach theme by picking up bottles of Volvic water and Chimay ale at a grocery store near the hidden cove that we selected for our dips into the cool Pacific. We spotted a school of dolphins doing laps about 100 feet away from the shore. Two hours later, tired and hungry, we returned to Los Angeles for an al fresco lunch at M Cafe de Chaya. I stuffed a huge BBQ seitan sandwich in my mouth.
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