Lots of pretty people there, reading Rolling Stone, reading Vogue.

At Rockn Fish, in Manhattan Beach. We are sitting on the patio; the historian has his back to the door, which means I am in precisely the spot to observe the comings and goings:

Me: You can't see the exceedingly well-groomed people coming in and out of here.

The historian: Really? (continues eating his artichoke.)

Me: Yeah. Like, just now: tall guy, eyebrows clearly professionally groomed, airbrushed tan.

Velvet blazer. Very well-fitted.

The historian: That could be me.

Me: ...yet tragically, it is not.