VENICE BEACH 1960, PHOTO BY R. L. HUFFSTUTTER

VENICE BEACH 1960, PHOTO BY R. L. HUFFSTUTTER, a photo by roberthuffstutter on Flickr.

SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT THE VENICE BEACH OF 50 YEARS AGO AND WRITING THE "GREAT AMERICAN" NOVEL by R.L.Huffstutter

Let me simply say that when I got off the bus and walked down to Venice West more than 50 years ago, it was a different scene.

I will never forget the thrill of smelling the variety of different foods drifting out of the small delis and cafes. I was fascinated by the elderly, bundled up on the benchs, speaking the language of Eastern Europe. I was fascinated by the women and men in their mid-20s who smiled at me as though they had secrets I knew nothing about but would discover if I remained. They were artists, lovers, musicians, poets, writers, employees of the City, unemployed men and women, fry-cooks, donut bakers, street sweepers, alcoholics who had been hiding out since the Korean War, people with clothing that looked like it was from the 40s, youth like myself who had come to Venice to be cool and get drunk and party all night at the St Marks Hotel and then write poetry about being beat and send post cards back to our friends and tell them to come out and get drunk with us, sun and fun lovers, chicks with bodies that slipped out of the covers of the latest Playboy, guys showing off their abs at Muscle Beach, old people who smiled at everyone and called most everyone their own age by first names.

That was the Venice I arrived in fifty years age--before they tore the cool buildings down, before they poured concrete where bungalows had been, before they razed the old International VIllage with all the cool but closed restauraunts.

Oh', the liquor stores, there were lots of liquor stores. There was one one every corner and they were always running out of muscatel and paper bags. But that is all history now.

Right, it is gone now. And nobody had a lot of time back then for painting names on stuff because people were writing poetry and trying to write the "great American novel" all over again. There were lots of writers who were writers and lots of people who talked about writing. And there was the old Venice West Cafe where there really were poetry readings by candlelight every night. That was so cool-- we could hardly wait to read our own stuff.

The old chairs and tables, the espresso machine, that strong, magic smell of espresso that I have never come across again in fifty years. I can still hear the steam valve hissing and smell the aroma of espresso filling up the entire place. Yes, that was Venice Beach, Venice West by the long-time, old-time beats.

I lived on Paloma Street and I am glad I caught a corner of the beat scene before it was gone forever.

I'm not done with this yet. I will always be writing this novel.

CHAPTER ONE

Venice Beach, California was much different back in 1960.

The population wasn't near what it has become now. The building codes were not an issue. About the only issues that I recall involved the parking situations. Thankfully, most who lived in Venice did not own autos. Since many cars then did not have power steering, it took a lot of strength and ability to judge distance to get in and out of the alleys and parking spots.

Most of the studio apartments were entered from the alley, up the old wooden staircases that were rickety and sometimes shook. One had to be wary of cats dozing or a dog who didn't reckognize the scent of the stair-climber. The alleys were full of delightful aromas of eastern European and Italian dinners being stirred, simmering.

Venice Beach in the 1960s had an air about it that never let one forget the Pacific Ocean was nearby. The gulls have not changed, always either in flight or landing for morsels littered.

Walking through the maze of the Venice alleys was a unique experience. Like any village or town, Venice Beach had an attitude that could change goals and plans. It was a fun place to live and I suppose there are many I passed on my short walks down to the beach who still live there, enjoying the horizon, the smell of the ocean air, friends made throughout the years.

Gone now, I'm sure, are those who immigrated to America who sat on the park benches bundled up speaking Yiddish or some other foreign tongue. Gone too are those elderly gentlemen who were veterans of the first war. Most of the men and women who were adults during the second war are gone now. We call them "the Greatest Generation."

It is like America is suddenly vanishing, or is it just me?

Oh, I am vanishing too, just like the rest of my generation. In a few years, the park benches will all be gone.

CHAPTER TWO

It is as though I hear the voices of the youth drifting up from the surf to tantalize my senses; it is as though I catch a breeze that is carrying a Kosher submarine sandwich combined with the scent of 60s tanning lotion. My olfactatory elements are almost ready to blow a fuse from the intensity of this illusionary scene.

I close my eyes and relax; I doze off briefly only to awake to find a dove looking at me with more curiosity than I care to describe. Several moments pass. The dove's mate lights beside the other.

It is good to have such fond memories. It is good to be alive and able to remember those youthful, joyful days when my eyes met the eyes of many of my peers and generated a lustful wish.

Perhaps, perhaps there is more to lust than one might want to admit, at least publicly, but it is a writer's duty to record the reality of the past and the present.