Friday July 22. The first time I feel like I've earned my view of the Pacific. Two days after hiking in Utah at 8500 feet I'm standing on a deck in Malibu at about 10. I've tumbled from the hoodoos at Bryce Canyon to rooms at the Flamingo to this beachside rehearsal dinner. The sun sets behind a beach house and a private helicopter buzzes low over the surf. California once again arranges itself to be extra Californian. Literally arranges itself, since the restaurant has cemented the rocks to create more dramatic breaks as the waves roll in. Later that night it's a show at the Viper Room - we'll leave before the Guns N' Roses simulation takes the stage - and the next evening at a hotel in Santa Monica with just a glimmer of an ocean view I will watch as an actor whose work I know and like dances with my in-laws. He won't look so tough the next time Daredevil drops him under a train. From the first tumbleweed in New Mexico everything in this trip has been itself, only more so.
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