Oh, my ass. Oh, my goddamn aching ass.

I went biking yesterday.

Yeah, for the first time in ages, I biked. I've been running along a creek near my apartment for the past few weeks, and I know that this creek lets out into the ocean. I'm doing the running for exercise, and the goal I've set for myself is to one day be able to run to the ocean. According to a sign along the creek, the ocean is 4.3 miles away, and even though I'm building up the stamina, I can only make it about halfway before my legs and lungs surrender.

Yesterday, I wanted to switch things up a bit, and instead of jogging, I jumped on the roomate's bike and pedaled myself all the way to the Pacific.

I love the ocean. Having grown up in Chicago, we had Lake Michigan, which although large, wasn't exactly exotic. You don't wade into Lake Michigan and think to yourself "Wow...on the other side of this body of water: Canada!"

But the ocean is different. The muted crashes of the waves alone are worth the trip. The idea of all those interconnected droplets of water, the thought that just a few weeks ago, some of the spray hitting your face may have come from a storm near Japan. That foam lapping around your feet may have melted off an ice shelf or iceberg somewhere. You could put a message in a bottle, toss it in, and imagine that it ends up somewhere slightly more interesting than the hands of someone in the Chicago suburb of Evanston.

And then there's the beach itself. I love to look at the homes lined up along the shoreline, with their balconies and comfy looking chairs, and imagine cooking barbecue for my friends as the sun sets over the water, and I promise myself that someday I am going to do that.

And then there are women. In bikinis. Pink bikinis. Playing volleyball and jumping and down delightfully. And what is that massive, seemingly unreal, shadowy ship out there in the water? Is it a scow? A barge perhaps?

I've been looking for a reason to use the words 'scow' and 'barge' lately.

This midwestern boy loves him some beach and ocean, yes. It's my favorite part of Los Angeles, next to Hollywood. I propose that everything in between the two be razed and reforested. Hollywood, pine trees, ocean.

I'm still struggling with my feelings about Los Angeles. If I haven't started to like it here more, I've at least become more accepting of it, as a place I can live. It still boggles me occasionally that I've traded my muscular, dirty, concrete mammoths of amazing architecture for ubiquitous, two story stucco. As I was biking along the ocean yesterday, I realized that this must be what the songs that are so complimentary of California are talking about.

Am I supposed to be California dreamin' of strip mall after strip mall, with a Subway, dollar store, and liquor store, on such a winter's day?

And Anthony Kiedis, if you're reading, could you let me know exactly which part of the city "kisses [you] windy"? Is it the part of La Brea Blvd. that looks exactly like that part of Venice Blvd., or the part of Santa Monica Blvd. that looks exactly like that part of La Brea Blvd.?

The plan for today is to do nothing involving my ass.