Quite possibly it stems from my father, his love of the beach, of beach culture, of the West Coast. His Birdwell Beach Britches, his buddy LJ. The old Surfin' USA cassette I grew up with. The tunes even my younger brother bebopped along to. Endless Summer. The resurgences of Trader Vic's in the Pearl District. An old Kimo's tee that I wore to death and kept snagging out of my mother's closet. Staying up late to watch Big Wednesday or Gidget. The undercurrents of the beach. My memory is haunted by a time long ago and far away. A culture and a lifestyle that I only vacationed to or dreamt about.
Yesterday afternoon reading the NYTimes Sunday Styles on the balcony of our apartment, a neighbor was blaring Sloop J B and my mind returned to being a teenager. Back to road trips, glimpses of waves and graphics of surfboads and swim trunks. Maybe its the recent incarnation of tiki infiltrating my subconscious just as soon as the decision to dawn oxfords and button downs had solidified.
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