It's the beach on a wintry day:

It's wintertime in Laguna Beach, when the painted easel holiday street signs decorate lamp posts for the season.

It’s where rich people use golf carts to schlepp to the beach.

It’s where it’s not enough anymore for middle-aged men to just have a mid-life crisis and buy a sportscar, now they have to have a mid-wife crisis and date a hot young blonde.

It’s the teenage boy skateboarding to the beach with a skimboard strapped to his back.

It’s CARMAGEDDON!!!

It’s the deranged Republican fantasy to divide our state into South California and North California.

It’s the Legendary Amtrak Mooning of south Orange County.

It’s the girl crossing the PCH on her way back from the beach wearing a black bikini and combat boots.

It’s where I’ve seen a rattlesnake, a coyote and a bobcat on my neighborhood trail, and a dolphin and a whale at my local beach.

It’s the three Buddhist monks at the outdoor jazz festival wearing saffron robes and sipping beverages from cardboard coffee cups:

From Jeanine:

It’s the high school-aged surfer kid who shows up in a sleek new BMW to deliver your pizza in south Orange County.

It’s the surfing Madonna of Encinitas.

It’s the wild, red-crowned parrots of Venice.

It's:

It's:

It's:

It’s the South OC Triangle, a mysterious FM radio void between Laguna Beach, Dana Point and San Clemente, where one can’t get lock onto a strong NPR signal. Static electricity drowns out All Things Considered, This American Life and Fresh Air whenever one is driving within the city limits of some of the bluest towns in a very red county. Conspiracy or coincidence? You decide.

It’s the winos of San Clemente, swerving their cars up and down the PCH on a Saturday night.

It’s where guys come to bro out, and gals come to be beach chic.

It’s four season flip-flops.

It’s surfer guy dogma – a blend of oceanic mysticism and boys club croneyism.

It’s signing a surfboard instead of a guestbook at an OC wedding.