The sun beat down on Santa Monica like an overdose of Vitamin D as I walked along the boardwalk licking an ice cream cone. Before I could get close to finishing it, it had melted like a mannequin in a burning wax museum.

I stopped at Honest John’s hot dog stand for a napkin and some celery juice. Daily habit. Honest John used to be a wrestler, and his little shack was full of pictures of him and former adversaries. Mad Dog Cerrito. Bonehead Gurk. Pimple Hammerfish. Crazy Monk Farrell. Buddy Miles. The Scuzzer. I sipped my celery drink and listened to Honest John reminisce until I got bored. Then I walked down the pier, past Synanon on Ocean Avenue, to the Surfrider Motel where I conked out in front of the TV, trying to remember why I came to this chili dog town in the first place.