Please, guys: A beach is not a bar

Spring is officially here. Baseball season is in full swing, flowers are in bloom and Los Angeles has gotten its first few heat waves. So when the temperature is a perfect 75 degrees in Santa Monica, there is only one thing to do: Head for the beach.

Hitting the sand before summer has its pros and cons. On the positive side, the beaches aren’t nearly as crowded and they’re much cleaner. On the negative side, my body never seems quite ready for its debut in a bathing suit. My New Year’s resolution to work out like a fiend is always made with great intentions, but sometimes the follow-through is iffy at best.

The sunshine, however, was just too hard to resist. Against my better judgment, I decided to go ahead and break out the bikini. I stuffed a towel and a notepad (in case inspiration hit) into my backpack and off I went. I found a peaceful place near the water with the perfect 6-foot minimum distance from other beachgoers. I made my expert sand pillow, spread out my towel and leaned back with a sigh. The crashing waves and gentle breeze instantly washed away my troubles. This was pure bliss -- for about five whole minutes.

Suddenly a shadow loomed above me. I squinted up and saw a guy standing over me, with a goofy grin and a familiar scent. “Hi! I’m Joe [not his real name]. I saw you and had to say hello because you’re all alone.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed his buddy setting up camp three feet from my tranquil turf. Among the items his friend set down in my once-serene spot: a cooler (I knew I smelled booze) and -- please, say it ain’t so -- a boombox. Do they still make those?

I turned my attention back to the intoxicated would-be frat boy who was now ruining my chances for any tan lines. “You should move your towel closer to us,” he said. “Then you can hear my great music.” Oh, yeah, because the three feet between us is way too far for me.

“I think I’ll stay right here,” I said, “but thanks.”

That exchange was only the beginning. I’ve got to hand it to the guy: He never gave up. He also never gave up on the nine other women in his proximity. For the next three hours, Joe was the mayor of Santa Monica Beach, making sure every female in his eye line was offered her choice of a Bloody Mary (tempting) or a beer, all the while spinning his tunes (or rather, pressing “play”) on his box that was indeed booming.

At one point, his much-quieter friend lifted his head and said, “Did you ask if these people mind the music?” I opened my mouth to plead my case, but the mayor quickly said, “They don’t mind! I’m the music master!,” and promptly pumped the volume on Asia’s “Heat of the Moment.” Oh boy, this kid was never going to lie down.

Luckily, three new bikini-clad ladies bounced over, and my forever-frat boy focused his affections on them for a while, bopping from one towel to another (and me in between). I took the opportunity to pull out my notepad and started scribbling some of his fabulous one-liners. After all, they might come in handy some day. The shadow was over me again. “Hey, are you writing down everything I say?” Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. “No, of course not,” I replied. “Good,” he said. “Because I have a reputation to protect.”

And with that, he stumbled away, curled up on his towel and passed out. I guess even the mayor needs to sleep once in a while. Hooray for spring.

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