Tourist Traps

Recently, I found myself wandering down the Santa Monica Pier. I had never been there before, and while I knew it was a tourist trap, I wanted to see it. It was, classic Southern California beautiful, the green palm trees striking against the white sand and deep blue ocean, the yellow Farris Wheel quintessential proof that Hollywood was not lying about California.

And the pier itself, full of sea spray, smells of funnel cake and cotton candy, tourist shops, ways to distract your kids as long as you were willing to shell out a few bucks, was just what I was hoping for.

I mingled with the tourists. It was a Tuesday in spring, yet there were still throngs of people out, curious to experience the scene for themselves.

I meandered toward the end of the pier and saw a group of people had stopped to watch something. I saw they were in fact watching a group of young men. The men had rolled out a big carpet on the pier. They'd set up speakers, and one was amping up the crowd.

"You want to see something you all have never seen before?" the emcee called into his microphone.

But, the selling point of this gaggle of men was the fact that they were wearing no shirts, and they were absolutely jacked. And they were small, like gymnast heights. And, they represented every skin tone imaginable.

Here was this crowd of doughy, untanned tourists, caught in a highly orchestrated thirst trap. We were about to watch bunch of romance book cover models, with abs up to their eyes, do something that was most certainly going to involve them jumping and twisting their oiled torsos.

I mean, no wonder no one was walking past them. I too stopped walking.

But the thing was, the emcee was mean. These statuesque men were standing in a line, moving like the were about to jump ten feet in the air, showing off just what all those muscles could do, but the emcee, he was heckling the crowd.

"You better start cheering, or we are going to pack up and leave!" he cried into the microphone, his amplified voice rising above the waves.

The men continued to gyrate, and a lack luster cheer came from the Tuesday morning tourists.

"I'm being serious, you don't deserve to see us. Not if you aren't going to cheer us on."

The men wiggled their hips, the crowd gave another half-hearted cheer.

"You all are the worst crowd I've ever seen."

The men glistened in the southern California sun, the crowd didn't respond.

"You all suck."

The men swayed, the crowd continued to watch, but no one clapped.

"Fuck you all. We're packing up. You don't deserve to see us."

And with that, the men broke rank, rolled up the carpet, and pushed the cart carrying their speaker back down the pier. The crowd watched them blankly.

Once the men were no longer in front of us, the crowd, all obviously tourists from out of the state or country, jolted as if released from a fever dream. People began to move again, starting up their slow tourist wander, like nothing had happened.

I too found myself walking again.

I wondered if that had been some sort of scam? How had so many men with perfect skin and bodies had found each other and then thought create some sort of hostile dance crew? How many of them were aspiring actors? Was the emcee just having a bad day? What would it be like to hustle in hopes of making big it in Los Angeles? What was their show was really like? Did they actually have a show? Or had I seen it?

What ever the case, I felt like I had gotten a taste of the City of Angels.

I wasn't disappointed in the least.