It's a busy twenty-four hours on the beach in Santa Monica. (This doesn't have a whole lot to do with writing – except that fiction gets harder and harder to write because you can't make this stuff up, and that the police have something to teach writers about paying attention.) 

Yesterday I took Nelson out for a walk on the beach and noticed that a guy had driven his truck into the sand where it was stuck. He was furious and called to me for help. All kinds of weird things go on in our neighborhood and I don't usually get scared, but this guy spooked me; he was very drunk and very mad. So I scooped up Nelson and went into the house and R. called the police – even scarier was the thought of this guy getting his truck out of the sand and onto the road. 

Two policemen came and for a while it was a stand off, then they tried to do a sobriety test on him and all hell broke loose. The result of resisting arrest is swift and awesome. At least ten more police cars showed up within minutes, plus a fire truck and ambulance and the parking lot filled with cops. R. and I were questioned as witnesses by an incredibly charming and professional cop: where exactly were they standing, who moved where and when etc.. Once when I interviewed a police officer for a novel I was writing, she said that wherever she is she's always looking for something not being right, she always notices the details. R. and I were pretty sloppy on the details and once again I vowed to pay better attention to whatever is going on.

This morning a car arrived in the parking lot with signs: "Say I Do Today" and "Elope in Style" along with a van filled with white chairs and flowers. All of which are now set up on the beach for what I'm assuming is a noon wedding. 

Tonight 300,000 (that is not a typo) people are expected on the beach in Santa Monica for Glow – an all night art installation being showed on the Pier and in Palisades Park above the beach. 

As I said, you just can’t make this stuff up.