San Luis Obispo, you must know I’ve been flirting with the idea of leaving you–courting me nonstop like this. You with your gorgeous hillsides and your calm mornings served in coffee chalices. I’m not quite ready to forsake your sun’s kiss.
Touch: I got my hands on my mom’s old Singer this weekend, and turned fabric into furniture jewelry.
Sam is a close friend who uses his hipsterness for good not evil. He’s ironic, bearded, and enjoys pour over coffee with the same intensity that eighth grade boys in middle America enjoy Bagel Bites.
Sam and I drove due north this weekend to visit our respective families up in the bay area. Sometime around the King City speed trap, our bladders and obnoxious coffee intake teamed up to force us off the freeway and into a McDonalds.
I thought it would be a quick get in/get out kind of pit stop. Sam took the “when in Rome” approach and purchased a single hash brown. It was that uncertain mix of firm and flimsy woven fibers that took my car on an olfactory journey from hydrogenated oil to a confusing after-scent of cabbage, rotten egg and diesel.
Replace raindrops on roses with butternut squash,
whiskers on kittens with apples, ricotta, and caramelized onions,
brown paper packages with mascarpone…
… and Julie Andrews and I have a lot in common.
If you live within 25 miles of Danville and love organic, gluten free, thin crust pizza, go to Jules.
I’m thankful to be fairly good at several things. Double knotting my shoes in 2 seconds flat, preparing oatmeal to a cloudlike consistency, hula hooping–to name a modest few. But when it comes to impersonations, every attempt sounds the same unpleasant offense: an Indian/Irish hybrid of misshapen vowels and misguided inflection.
So when I was home this Friday night, wilding out to my complete score of Beatles sheet music, I passed the mic from John to Paul to Ringo to George. The accent that escaped my lips sounded like what six-year-old Danny Bonaduce in a Sari would look like.
My dad loved the Beatles, and would sing Goodnight to his girls every single night.
I have several videos saved on my phone where Dad played the leading role. This week, I watched them all. Back to back, forward and back, lying face up below a headboard he helped me build from an old closet door.
His voice sounded close, his eyes seemed like they blinked and batted in rhythm with my own. He was so goofy, and I am so cold lying here months later with my index finger tapping and untapping a big triangle on a small screen. Playback. Playback. Playback. Playback.