THE OFFICIAL GUIDE TO FURNISHING A BEACH SHACK
BY DELL FRANKLIN
If you’ve rented dilapidated, termite-gnawed, leaky old beach shacks for over four decades, as I have, you must be inspired, as well as dedicated, when shopping for furniture. A beach shack should never be out of character as to ambience, especially at the risk of losing comfort. A search at yard sales, thrift shops and second-hand stores usually fill the need of a desk, recliner, swivel chair, side table, TV tray, book cases, and davenport or extended sofa.
I’ve been using the same sofa on which I sleep, watch TV, read, work crossword puzzles, and fondle women since 1981, when I purchased it almost new from a desperate drug addict for $25. The pads have long since grown worn and flattened, but I make up for this by layering it with comforters that last anywhere from a year or two, depending on how badly the cats maul them, though replacing them is always easy if you hit up thrift stores in San Luis Obispo, Morro Bay and Cayucos, where three comforters can usually be purchased for less than $15. I once found a nearly new down quilt for $7, but had to dispatch it for disturbing the pecking order of my felines, who instantly recognized uncommon luxury.
The sofa, broken in so it fits my body like a mold, is a source of near hysterical displeasure to my off-and-on lady friend, and to ladies of the past, yet my fear of having it hauled away to the dump is akin to having my tennis racket taken away and replaced by hammer or garden tool. A good friend and carpenter, who understands my ways, reinforced this sofa 22 years ago with a long, rigid wooden board, so that there is no sag, and it has almost come to the point where I can no longer sleep in a bed. This habit was former over the years from my coming home in the wee hours from bartending and needing a late snack and TV viewing on the sofa to wind down, and eventually passing out and seeing no reason to change positions at seven in the morning after a tinkle call, unless, of course, a lady beckons.
I once had a very comfortable, well-padded, dull-green recliner that fit my body as snugly as the sofa and also had three positions: straight up for meals, halfway back for reading or TV viewing; and supine in case I nodded off. This recliner was, more or less, a guest chair, a throne for my unfussy friends, and lasted roughly ten years until the cats, from nonstop clawing, reduced it to a skeleton with dangling fringe, though comforters and blankets upon it presented a colorful blend to the overall décor.
This recliner was donated to me by Cayucos’s foremost scavenger-hauler-handyman, Brad Heizenrader, who will not take anything to the dump without first consulting me. He did in fact replace this recliner with another of near identical likeness found squatting on the main drag with a cardboard FREE sign on its lap. It needs replacement at this point and the scavenger is on the lookout and forever resourceful, as he has in the past found me a still smooth running washer and dryer, microwave, vacuum cleaner, rowing contraption and patio table.
My most endearing and enduring purchases have come at closing time of yard sales, when a seemingly ripped, gashed, scuffed or rickety item is passed over by even the most desperate Saturday morning marauders, whom, as a vast legion, seem to suffer from the same madness as those paying thousands for a fancy chair or lamp or vase, or some ridiculous antique too precious and delicate to touch, much less use. I mean, a nail or two, perhaps a swatch of duct-tape, and you have a sturdy fixture, a treasure to add to your interior and a source of pride to showcase to those who understand you, or underestimate you, or, worse, take you at face value.
Now, if one is getting the wrong impression of my interior design, he or she will be heartened to know that, over the years, I have collected fine oil and watercolor paintings, boxing posters, baseball pennants, drinking caps and hats, scatological laminated poems by Charles Bukowski, and photos of pets living and dead on walls, blending well with solid multi-colored blackout towels replacing curtains, which are too frilly for my taste.
So, by now the reader must surely have a vivid visual picture of my interior make-up, but no mosaic is complete without outdoor furniture perfectly complimenting dog patch, and meant to impress neighbors, especially in an increasingly gentrified and affluent beach community of effete exiles from the Bay and LA area. Though much of my exterior furniture was supplied by Mr. Heizenrader, I have also culled some fixtures on my own, making sure every chair and lounger is of a separate color, size and style, and making sure I have enough of them for the occasional barbecue and booze fest, so that a very wide circle of these mismatching functionaries can assure a certain comfort and intimacy for my rogue’s gallery of guests as the beer cans and booze bottles mass on all sides, and burgers, sausages and hot dogs crackle and smoke, and the music blares, and the hilarity blossoms and spirals to heightened levels, and the dogs beg and succeed, and the cats glower from the fence beside us, and so on and so forth, into the evening and into the night…
How then, the reader must wonder, does a woman fit into this mosaic, and what special breed of woman is even qualified? Well, over the years, the women have dwindled, even the most resilient and stout-hearted. They seem to take issue with the clothesline in the background, draped of athletic togs, blankets, comforters, tattered towels and rags; the cluster of tennis shoes, hoop sneakers, sandals and dog balls on the front porch; the welcome mat that is worn nearly bare but has sentimental value; the toilet plunger, withered broom and rusted weed whacker resting nearby against the porch railing; and, of course, the infestation of high weeds that seem immune from the unworthy push mower moldering out of sight in the yard.
Finally, no beach shack shall be properly adorned for tourist viewing unless at least two non-operational vehicles rest along the driveway beside the owners still running questionable old heap. Since there is a plethora of golf carts and gleaming Jags, BMWs and Volvo station wagons with personalized license plates disappearing into garages of recently built faux McMansions with small, manicured, landscapist-tended yards, it is imperative that the vehicles be, first and foremost, old enough to have accumulated a lot of rust and long since faded paint job, dust and permanently caked in dirt, some duct tape to plug leaks and corrosion. a window that will not go up and is replaced by plastic sheeting of a garish hue, a bent aerial, and, most important, a bumper sticker boasting of an offspring in juvenile lock-up rather than an honor student.
In furnishing a beach shack, self-expression is everything.
If you’ve rented dilapidated, termite-gnawed, leaky old beach shacks for over four decades, as I have, you must be inspired, as well as dedicated, when shopping for furniture. A beach shack should never be out of character as to ambience, especially at the risk of losing comfort. A search at yard sales, thrift shops and second-hand stores usually fill the need of a desk, recliner, swivel chair, side table, TV tray, book cases, and davenport or extended sofa.
I’ve been using the same sofa on which I sleep, watch TV, read, work crossword puzzles, and fondle women since 1981, when I purchased it almost new from a desperate drug addict for $25. The pads have long since grown worn and flattened, but I make up for this by layering it with comforters that last anywhere from a year or two, depending on how badly the cats maul them, though replacing them is always easy if you hit up thrift stores in San Luis Obispo, Morro Bay and Cayucos, where three comforters can usually be purchased for less than $15. I once found a nearly new down quilt for $7, but had to dispatch it for disturbing the pecking order of my felines, who instantly recognized uncommon luxury.
The sofa, broken in so it fits my body like a mold, is a source of near hysterical displeasure to my off-and-on lady friend, and to ladies of the past, yet my fear of having it hauled away to the dump is akin to having my tennis racket taken away and replaced by hammer or garden tool. A good friend and carpenter, who understands my ways, reinforced this sofa 22 years ago with a long, rigid wooden board, so that there is no sag, and it has almost come to the point where I can no longer sleep in a bed. This habit was former over the years from my coming home in the wee hours from bartending and needing a late snack and TV viewing on the sofa to wind down, and eventually passing out and seeing no reason to change positions at seven in the morning after a tinkle call, unless, of course, a lady beckons.
I once had a very comfortable, well-padded, dull-green recliner that fit my body as snugly as the sofa and also had three positions: straight up for meals, halfway back for reading or TV viewing; and supine in case I nodded off. This recliner was, more or less, a guest chair, a throne for my unfussy friends, and lasted roughly ten years until the cats, from nonstop clawing, reduced it to a skeleton with dangling fringe, though comforters and blankets upon it presented a colorful blend to the overall décor.
This recliner was donated to me by Cayucos’s foremost scavenger-hauler-handyman, Brad Heizenrader, who will not take anything to the dump without first consulting me. He did in fact replace this recliner with another of near identical likeness found squatting on the main drag with a cardboard FREE sign on its lap. It needs replacement at this point and the scavenger is on the lookout and forever resourceful, as he has in the past found me a still smooth running washer and dryer, microwave, vacuum cleaner, rowing contraption and patio table.
My most endearing and enduring purchases have come at closing time of yard sales, when a seemingly ripped, gashed, scuffed or rickety item is passed over by even the most desperate Saturday morning marauders, whom, as a vast legion, seem to suffer from the same madness as those paying thousands for a fancy chair or lamp or vase, or some ridiculous antique too precious and delicate to touch, much less use. I mean, a nail or two, perhaps a swatch of duct-tape, and you have a sturdy fixture, a treasure to add to your interior and a source of pride to showcase to those who understand you, or underestimate you, or, worse, take you at face value.
Now, if one is getting the wrong impression of my interior design, he or she will be heartened to know that, over the years, I have collected fine oil and watercolor paintings, boxing posters, baseball pennants, drinking caps and hats, scatological laminated poems by Charles Bukowski, and photos of pets living and dead on walls, blending well with solid multi-colored blackout towels replacing curtains, which are too frilly for my taste.
So, by now the reader must surely have a vivid visual picture of my interior make-up, but no mosaic is complete without outdoor furniture perfectly complimenting dog patch, and meant to impress neighbors, especially in an increasingly gentrified and affluent beach community of effete exiles from the Bay and LA area. Though much of my exterior furniture was supplied by Mr. Heizenrader, I have also culled some fixtures on my own, making sure every chair and lounger is of a separate color, size and style, and making sure I have enough of them for the occasional barbecue and booze fest, so that a very wide circle of these mismatching functionaries can assure a certain comfort and intimacy for my rogue’s gallery of guests as the beer cans and booze bottles mass on all sides, and burgers, sausages and hot dogs crackle and smoke, and the music blares, and the hilarity blossoms and spirals to heightened levels, and the dogs beg and succeed, and the cats glower from the fence beside us, and so on and so forth, into the evening and into the night…
How then, the reader must wonder, does a woman fit into this mosaic, and what special breed of woman is even qualified? Well, over the years, the women have dwindled, even the most resilient and stout-hearted. They seem to take issue with the clothesline in the background, draped of athletic togs, blankets, comforters, tattered towels and rags; the cluster of tennis shoes, hoop sneakers, sandals and dog balls on the front porch; the welcome mat that is worn nearly bare but has sentimental value; the toilet plunger, withered broom and rusted weed whacker resting nearby against the porch railing; and, of course, the infestation of high weeds that seem immune from the unworthy push mower moldering out of sight in the yard.
Finally, no beach shack shall be properly adorned for tourist viewing unless at least two non-operational vehicles rest along the driveway beside the owners still running questionable old heap. Since there is a plethora of golf carts and gleaming Jags, BMWs and Volvo station wagons with personalized license plates disappearing into garages of recently built faux McMansions with small, manicured, landscapist-tended yards, it is imperative that the vehicles be, first and foremost, old enough to have accumulated a lot of rust and long since faded paint job, dust and permanently caked in dirt, some duct tape to plug leaks and corrosion. a window that will not go up and is replaced by plastic sheeting of a garish hue, a bent aerial, and, most important, a bumper sticker boasting of an offspring in juvenile lock-up rather than an honor student.
In furnishing a beach shack, self-expression is everything.
