Hot, older model waitresses were not scared to flirt. Ugly waitresses were not scared to flirt in between ciggy breaks. Glory days etc.
Newport Beach, Ca. 1993: Divorced, living in my warehouse in a business park on the cliff above River Jetties, I decided to move back into the surf hood.
Smallest one-bedroom on earth… living room was literally a surfboard rack.
Donated couch and I had my mattress on the floor, no box spring or bed frame.
Two dinner plates, two knives (thank you Carl’s Jr), two forks, two drinking glasses and a hibachi.
That’s all I needed.
Women always tripped out seeing the bed (top grade mattress, btw) on the floor.
Clothes relatively neatly folded, also against the wall on the ground.
Magic boards lie awake in the closet inside the primitive coffin of that day.
The Cave was austerity on steroids except for the obscene amount of surfboards piled about.
Shower was clean, but the neighboring bath tub was filled with wetsuits “drying”…. Lucky the pad always smelled like weed.
Good waves one block west, bar district one block inland.
The obvious pubs with food, Malarky’s, Cassidy’s, Mutt Lynch’s, Ho Sum Bistro. All places to pluck a bird, varying food and nightly specials, tap beers.
Another short two blocks away, nestled against the harbor warehouses in a district soon to gentrified into homogeny, was the divest dive of dive bars known to Orange County.
Over the years, surfers began infiltrating the commercial fisherman hang out. Maybe 40 square feet and a third of that was a circular bar.
One of those small english billiard tables, forgot the name. That’s it.
The real estate became so valuable, the commercial fishing industry went away and our crew took over the bar. I never had to call anyone or make plans, just peddled the beach cruiser to Snug.
Never had to lock it, everyone knew it was mine.
Bartender was a relic… looked like Herman Munster on heroin. His face was a cartoon and he was grumpy as all fuck, we had replaced his drinking buddies.
Unsettled scores from the water were settled outside Snug.
Fights were no longer settled on the sand during altercations. Lawyers had litigated in favor of chaos.
In the mornings, the best grub breakfast in town by yards.
Hot, slutty, older model waitresses were not scared to flirt. Ugly slutty waitresses were not scared to flirt in between ciggy breaks and it was exceptionally rowdy at times.
It was said that you could tell if the surf was good by who was eating breakie (good swell, joint empty).
Today, Snug has been mowed down to build a sterile live/work/loft two-bedroom one-and-a-half bath, vertical and skinny, ugly row of glass, reclaimed wood, stone and cement walls.
Too many to count.
None of the residents remember Snug Harbor.
Lemoore Goat Rodeo does.