In the days before plastic surgery, wine bars, and Duke's, a little shop called Wylie's opened up. It provided provisions to those who fished the the many beaches in the northern reaches of Los Angeles County. Stocked with the necessities, and only the necessities, to this day, little has changed. If it's a "Malibu" T-Shirt for $19.99, a frisbee, or some tanning sauce that you're after, just keep heading on up the road. But if it's bloodworms, a sandspike, some lures, or you know, good shit like that, this is your spot.
As you duck through the low door into the dark, tiny wood shingled building barely larger than my childhood bedroom, the rush of aggravated commuters checking stocks on their iPhones fades away. Once your eyes adjust, you notice the walls, adorned with photos of appreciative customers posing with white sea bass, the occasional giant halibut, huge threshers and countless surf perch. A chest freezer hums away in the corner keeping the layers of bait ice cold, deep in its prehistoric bowels. If the wood floor inside wasn't worn smooth from years of loyal customers, you could probably get a pretty mean splinter from it, given it's the same construction as the the porch outside. It's a shack. A fucking awesome shack. The kind of shack, every ocean-lover dreams of. It's funny though, how it's come full circle. I guess in the same way a dive bar might, it lapped the term "outdated" years ago, and embodies a feel that is ironically sought out and emulated. It could easily be shallowly labeled "rustic", or even "chic" in ways the owner may never understand.
Old dinasaurs like this from a bygone era refresh the hell outta me. What do you treasure in your town? Is it one day gonna be merely a twinkle in your eye, as you ramble away to your grandkids about the good ole days? I sure hope this isn't.
