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Stay away from Malibu on the Fourth
Blue sky, balmy temps and, as if things weren't bad enough, no sign of the dread red tide turning the Pacific all foul and stinky. It's shaping up to be another hellish Independence Day here in Malibu.
Seriously. It sucks here on the 4th. PCH is a parking lot by noon. Beaches, restaurants, shops and sidewalks are jammed with slaphappy day-trippers. You might see Pierce Brosnan's limo stop for a latte at the Starbucks in Trancas or bump into Dick Van Dyke at the Country Mart, but for the most part, the locals are holed up at home. They did their shopping at 6 a.m., leaving less hardy souls to fight over the last La Brea baguette or sixer of Red Tail. They parked their cars, stocked their bars, stoked their barbies and they'll sip and sweat their way to dusk when the fireworks start.
First it's just a few squibs and bottle rockets. Kid stuff. And then, (ital)kaboom(end ital), the big one, the one that rocks your chest cavity and scares the dog. The bold-faced-ones hire barges and, depending on the size of their party of box office or…anyway. Fireworks. Real ones. Good ones. They chase the pelicans off the pier and send up smoky clouds that snuff out the stars.
And then it's over. Conga lines of cars head up Kanan and Malibu Canyon. The locals head for bed. The night belongs to the sea lions, barking and bellowing on the beach, looking for summer love.
photo by buzzcraven via Buzznet
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