Brighton Beaching

4th of July weekend, 2025

I’ve never belonged at the beach. Not culturally, not physically. Let’s face it—I’m fair. How fair? I make milk look tan. As a kid, going to the beach felt like forcing a vegan to eat bull testicles. Raw. My skin would start sizzling before my towel even hit the sand.

The trauma goes way back. Every summer, we’d make the annual trip to visit relatives in Odessa, and my parents would DEMAND that I get a tan—by any means necessary. The logic? So when we returned to our hometown in Belarus, the neighbors wouldn’t say, “Geez, you just came back from the Black Sea? Why’s that kid so white?!” But they always said it anyway. There’s no hiding from pigment math.

Still, as I got older—read: old—those metaphorical bull testes started to taste… not bad. Maybe even good. Maybe it was the years, or the quiet magic of living with the same person long enough that you start to soften in the right places. Maybe I just gave up. In a good way.

I’m still the palest person on the beach, always will be. But I’ve made peace with it. I’ve even learned to flaunt it. There’s a certain power in leaning into your glow. Reflecting sunlight like it’s your job.

When I first met my wife, one of the first things I asked her was, “Do you tan well?” She still brings it up. Apparently, that’s not a typical first-date question. But she said, “Ahhh, I think so…” and two weeks later, we moved in together. In fairness, a friend was subletting my apartment in L.A. at the time and had nowhere else to go, so it was either love or logistics. Let’s call it both. To be safe.

I was once walking down the beach when a kid ran up, pointed, and said, “My dad said you were the stand-in for Death on the set of The Seventh Seal.” He was maybe five or seven. Old enough to speak in full sentences, too young to be punched. I had just started learning Transcendental Meditation and told myself not to get mad at asswipes, even if they’re technically children.

And yet, and yet… this has… somehow… become my place. The Coney Island peninsula. Brighton Beach, July 4th weekend. The water like ice. The boardwalk like chaos. The smell of coconut lotion, grilled meat, and sweat.

No, I didn’t get a tan. But I showed up. I was present. I let the sun hit my skin for almost three minutes (maybe even four) and didn’t flinch.

And that counts. Methinks.

1. When’s the last time you saw Ruthless People (1986), the movie written by Dale Launer and directed by the Airplane team? Saw it again last night, after almost 40 years. It still holds up. And how!
   https://archive.org/details/TheColorPurple_201905

2. When’s the last time you heard Bob Dylan sing I’m a Fool to Want You?
   I’m learning how to play his version on the accordion. It ain’t easy, but it’s great.
   So much more painful than the Sinatra version, and even rawer than Billie Holiday’s.

3. When is the last time you read a good book about making a film? Well, you’re in luck. My friend Dana Lustig — producer, writer, director — just wrote one. Making a Movie: From Concept to Red Carpet. Get your copy while supplies last.

   I’d better sign off before I recommend something else.
   Thanks for reading and beaing a subscriber.

   ‘Til next time.

   ak