In an earlier post today, I made reference to a saxophone. That’s because I was thinking about this saxophone player I know from around the Venice ‘hood who always rides his skateboard barefoot while playing his sax. He cruises through town bringing a sense of peace with him. And sometimes you can be out near the beach in the twilight when the cold and the fog and the wind kicks up enough to send you home . . . and then from the mist, you hear the peal of a saxophone moving through the boardwalk. I hadn’t seen him in probably a year or more.

Today is sunshiney and windy. I just got back from a quick skate and I’m rolling down the boardwalk, the wind pushing me fast. I look up into the people ahead and my eyes rest on a glint of sun coming off of a stationary . . . saxophone! No way . . . I’m thinking, and grind my stopper into the cement to slow down and sure enough, it’s my old friend the barefoot skateboarding saxophone player who I’d just been thinking of today!

Venice has wide storm drains on every corner. It’s quite easy to accidentally drop things into their depths. Fortunately, if you drop something in the Venice storm drain, whether it’s skateboard or cell phone, bong or crack pipe, surfboard or dog . . . there is help out there.

A few months ago, my friend Frenchie came over. I pull up around dusk via Schwinn bicycle to witness the typical sort of arrival that my best friend is known for. Her car is parked slightly askew on the street. Doors open. Hazard lights flashing. She’s standing on the sidewalk in high-heeled boots, cell phone in hand, two LAPD officers blocking the intersection and “non-chalantly” – ahem! – salivating near her as though she is a Bavarian cream filled éclair that’s been dunked once in coffee.

I really thought something was wrong at first . . .

The big emergency? Her cell phone fell into the storm drain. She had flagged down an LAPD squad car and taken command of an officer’s cell phone. Give Archimedes a lever and a good vantage point and the Greek mathematician claimed he could move the globe. Give my friend Frenchie a cell phone and good reception and in her own way, she too can move the globe. I thought she’d never see her phone again. I was wrong.

After about twenty minutes, a huge truck about as long as the city block and reminiscent of a Star Wars Sandcrawler lumbers toward us. Two little guys in orange jumpsuits hop out. One of them pops the heavy manhole cover off with a little bitty tool that is not unlike a garden hoe. The other disappears into the storm drain and retrieves her phone. She takes it with a smile, notices the red message light blinking and says to the man with her syrupy Southern accent, “Thank you, sugar, for rescuing my messages!”

So, the next time your car stereo face plummets into the concrete depths or if some how your saxophone skids into the abyss of the street corners of Venice, don’t fret. Know that free help is available and dispatched quickly to the scene. There’s no need to panic or call your cell phone that’s sitting down there on the dark ledge, just out of arm’s reach. Call the men in the orange jumpsuits. They are professionals. They’ve got a giant truck. They know what to do.

So after Josie’s Party, my favorite part of the evening was walking to Santa Monica from Venice at night in the heavy rain. I donned a yellow rainjacket, rubber soled shoes and a red umbrella. Concealed in my pocket was a still half-full and newly resurrected Circle of Sin. I’m heading to this place that used to be called Schatzi’s on Main street in Santa Monica. I have no idea what the place is called now.

It’s my friend Kindred Khan’s birthday. I’ve got some Bushmill’s in my pocket. I’m going to see a bunch of good friends. WooHoo! At the restaurant, I meet up with my friends Patricia and Stu. *Stu is not his real name. It’s a name he made up himself, an alter ego who gets by with much more mayhem and drunkenness than the normal - Oi! - dude. Stu is a Super-man to the local Venice bar scene, if you will. I know his day-time persona, his Clark Kent equivalent, but Stu’s secret is safe with me!* Stu’s girlfriend sent him out for ice cream this rainy night, but he’s somehow made it here with us, instead of to the store. It’s too bad she’s not here, she’s one of the friends I was hoping to see tonight.

So, Stu and Patricia and I are hanging out in the rained-out swank of the club/bar place. I’m lounging on a vinyl couch in my rain jacket in some dim red light under an industrial pop-out tent. Nice enough. I can see the rain and feel a few renegade drops, but all I hear is ambient dance music.

“Hey, check this out,” Patricia says as she hands me a menu.

I open the red and white ribboned book. It’s a bottle menu. $650.00 for a bottle of Dom and 250.00 for any flavor of Absolut. Excellent.

“Hey, check this out,” I say as I pull out the Circle of Sin and begin to pass it around.

“Excellent,” purrs Stu, who takes a pull.

“Although I’m thinking it needs a new name,” I said, “Since it’s really not shaped like a circle . . ”

Stu recaps the flask and grunts with a Spanish accent, “It is . . . the Cortez of Sin!” He beats his chest and heart with his free hand while he holds the . . . Cortez of Sin(?) . . . high in the air.

Patricia is half-Mexican descent and speaks perfect spanish. She looks confused. “What’s ‘Cortez?’” she asks.

“Oi!” says Stu still in his Conquistador-voice, “You know, the heart!”

Patricia laughs. “That’s corazon!”

“Yeah, well, Cortez was a conquistador . . . ” I offer.

“Even Better! A con-QU-ista-Dor! Who had a heart!” says Stu.

I think the verdict is still out as to the new name of this flask. Cortez was indeed a conquistador. A successful one. He destroyed the Aztec empire in the early 1500’s. So, no Cortez of Sin for me, thank you. Any suggestions on a brand name for this new flask are appreciated. Chances are if you are reading this, that someday you’ll drink from it!