This is where the Happy Hour Hiking Club met Saturday, some 60 souls awaiting salvation and a Messiah in stone-washed jeans.
A wedding damps our cynicism, lights some inner circuit, the kind we had as kids and then lost.
A Chardonnay Mom works a tailgate party the way the Pope works Easter.
At one point in Field of Dreams, the hero’s dad returns for a game of catch. Silly thing to base a movie around. Jeeeesh.
I don’t write essays so much as I pull on little threads to see how they’ll unravel.
LA architecture often looks like the broken omelets I make…like some version of anti-matter.
Hey, do the Americans need a team humorist? A satirist? A silly Socrates? I’d put on a toga, I’d munch a Pringle, I’d tell a story.
My bar would be called “The Good Novel.” Debutantes would stumble in late, as would married women with money problems.
This has turned into a summer of the patio, a renaissance faire of gin and finger foods and homemade bean pie.
This is how we ended up eating live sea urchin, in the place they call “The Bu.”