It was an easy ride to Santa Barbara. You just follow the pumpkin stands along the 126, from Santa Clarita to the sea. Cowboy country.
A wedding damps our cynicism, lights some inner circuit, the kind we had as kids and then lost.
Posh’s wedding dress has been in a box in the basement for almost 40 years, getting dry, getting brittle.
Here come the handsome groom and the Florida-bred bride. There might’ve been gold dust in her makeup. Had to be platinum in her hair.
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.”
What a summer this promises to be, warm and sinny, sunblasted and social, with gin as the mixer.
Such a weekend we just celebrated in LA, full of sin and dishonor, two qualities that also make special our little village by the sea.
As my Irish luck would have it, I wound up singing “Danny Boy” to Dogpark Gary.
This season is full of tiny hazards, self-reflection being one of them. Herbal non-gluton crackers being another. And beware of those non-dairy non-cheeses.