The Dirty little college town.

Walking around confused and displaced, not knowing what to do, and where to go. I liked walking on the beach and the Warf. Except for the seals and the otters it was allot like Port Hueneme. Everywhere has a feel to it. The sophisticated artistic buzz of San Francisco, the frenetic do everything at once, look better than everyone else whine of Los Angeles. The bureaucratic government worker humm of Sacramento, but what was Monterey.

I couldn’t place it, couldn’t get a feel for it. There was the ritzy yet mellow aura of pebble beach, permeated with the sudo artistic class and grace of Carmel. The occasional overspill of young hoodlums from seaside, tempered by the ones from the DLI. Foreigners at the MIIS, intermingling with the locals of CSUMB forging a new kind of truce.

You’d see them all at the farmers market on Tuesdays. Walking around watching meeting talking, like the community church of old. Weekend nights on Alvarado burdened by young college people, working off the stress of the week. Modern predators, preying on the grazing tourists on cannery row. Artists trying to be creative at the coffee shops. Rich people enjoying the quaintness of the Pacific groves, where the town closes at eight, and the cold batters you like the sea wanting to make another widow.

This place like a lonely child bantering and begging for attention, negative and positive. There’s no style here either no permeating sense of fashion and décor, the young keep up everyone else, whatever they please. This town, like a see saw precariously balanced on a playground where children constantly tip it. Not one-way but not really another, inflows and outflows of people changing the paradigm and the feel. Like me it seems at times that this town is lost, and found. A homeless town for a homeless soul, this dirty little college town. Hyped with the energy of the young, embalmed with the fluid of old, where places and bars pictures try to live up to a writer’s legacy.