Labor Day, or rather the kickoff of College Game Day that goes hand in hand, marks the unofficial end of summer. But if that's too depressing a thought, just extend the lazy hazy days by heading down to sunny SoCal. And it doesn't hurt that USC is ranked number 1 in the pre-season polls, now does it?
It's like the Hamptons, except it doesn't cost you 30k for the summer (botox not included).
The pier to nowhere. Especially if you can't swim.
What good is a beach with no bikinis in sight?
Bankrupt and Bankrupter.
For some reason Grandma's idea of spending some time with her grandson had nothing to do with firing up the USC game and cracking open a cold one.
Rock demonstrates the correct application of dead reckoning navigation techniques: close your eyes and hope for the best. That's how Columbus found that secret passage to the untold riches of the West Indies right?
Actually in this case Rock got the geography right - the island of Santa Cruz is indeed tomorrow's destination - but what the map doesn't show is just how high those waves are...
If you need Google to identify a celebrity, then she's probably not really a celebrity. Probably just one of those Real Housewives of Wuhan.
Which one is Team New Zealand? If you can't compete with the global billionaires and their carbon fiber playthings, try a racing series more your size.
There's something quintessentially Californian about cruising State Route 1 on a Harley with the sea breeze at your back with not a care in the world. Heck, if the going gets tough, just write an IOU bro.
Someone update the "Where the Stars Live" map, there's a new celeb in town.
Forget Matt Barkley, someone get this dude on the field... on a hot day like this the Trojans definitely need a water boy.
Aren't you a little thick for a palm tree?
You can pile on all the glam you want, but deep down you know all you want is greasy tray of golden brown fish and chips. There's a little Palmy in all of us.
Don't let the gloriously calm dawn fool you, apparently it's been blowing quite a gale overnight and the Santa Barbara Channel is running more than a little swell. But who's worried, it's not like we have any breakfast to chuck up given how long it takes Mei to get out of bed.
Yeah yeah tough guy, this is not what we were referring to when we mentioned swell.
A bit choppy old salt, but nothing to get worried about, other than the prospect of that pirate bandanna blowing off.
The only thing that's reassuring about that is the name doesn't read Titanic.
Land ho! First order of the day is to subjugate the locals, pillage their treasures, and chop down the forests. After that there should be ample time to draft up a constitution and grab that elusive seat on the UN Security Council.
Mei is a little dubious about an island where you have to carry in your own food on your back. She thought NZ was about as primitive as islands get.
What was that about primitive?
Snide remarks aside, the island of Santa Cruz, the largest of the Channel Island National Park, is a pristine example of the California that existed before silicon... err... mountains outnumbered natural ones.
The seven mile round trip hike to the intriguingly named Smugglers Cove starts out easy enough. A mild uphill trail that winds away from the bay and landing wharf.
Speaking of smugglers, Rock is wondering if he can smuggle some of the lunch provisions out of his pack a little early.
They look pretty, but are they edible? The problem with carrying all your provisions is even if you eat them, you're still carrying the weight.
Someone has to liven up this dusty trail.
Not much can live out here on these windswept slopes, but the few flowers that do manage to eke out a meager existence don't let their brief time in the sun go to waste.
It's a long time between meals on these barren isles. Just ask the hikers who are already ruing the fact they didn't buy more than a couple measly organic lettuce wraps at Whole Foods last night.
Is the hawk hungry enough to try bigger morsels yet?
Evidently not.
A long hot hike is rewarded with a dip in the turquoise waters of Smugglers Cove. If you can call the frigid waters a reward.
Mei quickly decides that she'll leave the smuggling to others, it's a bit too chilly to justify saving a few bucks on booze tax.
To the victor goes the spoils. A chest of gold for your organic, farm-to-table peach me hearty?
Backbreaking work. Well it is for the guy that has to carry all her gear anyway.
Magnificent desolation. Even the LA smog can't make it out here, and that's saying something.
The return route takes on along the edge of an epic seaside cliff. If you fall out here, the good news is the water is so clear finding your remains shouldn't be a major problem... assuming anyone bothers to look.
Don't worry, most people would look short against a backdrop like that.
I'll take the high road, and you'll take the low road. Actually, the low road ends in a rather violent splatter.
Rock practices his levitation spell. The plan is to use it to avoid the queasy boat ride home. In that case, might need a little more air time dude.
I'm the king of the world! Or at least the king of a rather useless, isolated hunk of rock in the Pacific. Hang on, that sounds a bit like being the prime minister of NZ...
Hold the boat! Rock's critical miscalculation involving the conversion rate from miles to kilometers means a last minute scramble to the waiting boat.
Just made it. Which maybe isn't a good thing. Rock would prefer the rescue helicopter to another hour on the open Pacific.
If you're going cruisin' on U.S. Route 1, this is how you want to roll. How you don't want to roll is having Rock at the wheel.
Which way to Charlie Harper's? Just follow the babes.
In ultra-green Cali it's not enough to drive to lunch in a Prius and order the organic kale salad. You still need to feel guilty as penance for breathing out a little too much CO2 and contributing to global warming.
Alternatively, you can adopt a kid from each continent - preferably from a war-torn, drought-ravaged, landmine-infested flash point - to assuage the guilt of having a 29 bedroom home, 15 domestic staff, and a fleet of 12 V8s in various shades of racing red.
This year you'll be old enough to come from the Cretaceous Period too, right?
I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of Consumerism, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Shopping Mall indivisible, with bargains and sales for all.
That's what you get for making off-color Cretaceous jokes.
Santa Monica pier - it's the Left Coast's version of Coney Island, except without the hot dog eating contest. Kale eating on the other hand, is alive and well.
A Labor Day feast on the beach. There's no better way to celebrate the right to work than by watching someone else do the cooking. Mexican buffet here we come.
Seeing the sun set over something other than the Hudson is quite a novel concept.
