Janice Pelham called about the column on McDonald’s, being behind the counter and making my first Egg McMuffin.
I drove through the Kern Canyon to Lake Isabella earlier this week. The river was fat and brown. This was no time to drive off the road, I thought, because if you do, you will die and your car won’t be of much use to anybody in your family.
Its easy to forget about McDonald's. In-N-Out will make you forget. You see lines of cars snake around the building and you can forget everything including your name, rank and serial number.
Jay Smith emailed to say that Bakersfield’s Frank Bidart has a poem in the Jan. 23 edition of The New Yorker. He added that “Mourning What We Thought We Were,” might not be terribly complimentary toward his hometown but if the poem is good and is true, who cares.
The tree across our fence is loaded with oranges. These are January oranges, February oranges, the longer-they-stay-on-the-tree-the-sweeter-they-become oranges.
A few weeks ago, my brother sent me the 2017 Penthouse wall calendar with the bonus refrigerator magnet. I opened it early in the morning and when I realized what it was, I looked over my shoulder to make sure somebody wasn’t sneaking up on me.
A hundred-dollar gift certificate is something. When it’s to H. Walker's, something special. One that includes a gracious greeting at the door, hard candies on the counter, exquisite service and clothes, something to look forward to.
A few days ago, I reached for a bottle of wine. Red wine, because winter and red wine go together like football and stadium blankets. Winter, red wine and, even better, the red wine had a screw cap.
Friends gave us a box of See’s Chocolates during the holidays. The box, wrapped in red paper, was hidden in the bottom of a burlap bag filled with a delightful array of chips from Frito-Lay. Health food all, if the health of your psyche counts and it does.
Hallelujah. That might be some people’s reaction to Christmas being over but it is also the name of the song by Leonard Cohen that has been covered by about everybody including the woman behind the counter at the UPS store.
Thomas and I played the National Father & Son Hard Court Championships recently at the La Jolla Beach & Tennis Club. There are victories and there are moral victories. We excelled in at least one of those categories.
Neighborhoods generally have saints, the spiritual glue that makes its residents better than they have a right to be. A few days ago, ours — Veronica White — knocked on the door and asked if we wanted to take part in the cookie exchange on Saturday.
Things couldn’t be better with the two grandchildren — Nora, 5 months old, more fetching by the day, warming to her grandfather like they all do, and Andrew, the little soldier marching around laying claim to territory and hearts alike.
His dad knew it was time for a bike. Dads know. Dads may know less than moms, but bikes are part of some childhood truth into whose frequency they are tuned.
Why not kick off the Christmas season by buying yourself a present? You’ve given enough. People say giving makes you feel better, well not that much better. Not better than giving something to yourself and eliminating the middle man.
Traditions are hard to break on Thanksgiving. Sometimes that tradition is stuffing. A friend’s son was dismayed to discover that his mom hadn’t made stuffing for their meal so an hour and half before eating, his father ran to Marie Callender’s and bought a quart or so for around $15. Pricey …
Leon Russell died last week. One of my favorite songs is the duet he did with Elton John in “Best Part of the Day (the album was called “The Union.”) YouTube it. The song features a mature Elton John and a very mature Leon Russell. Russell was talented, smart and played backup on more record…
I stopped at a fruit stand on Sunday on my way home from Ventura. I felt like fresh fruit and when you feel like fresh fruit, lime-flavored peanuts from Chevron will not do.
Steve Merlo, who died recently, was made for this paper. This is a hunting, fishing, camping kind of town and Merlo wrote about the outdoors faithfully in his column.
We ate apple pie twice, the second time on our last day in Amsterdam. The pie was so good (from Winkel 43), the whipped cream so sweet and thick, that it was tempting to bring a piece home, which would have been dumb and in the blur of transit, would have become an apple pie smoothie.
I was having a conversation with a friend that covered work, his mother, my mother and all of our kids. I spared him grandchildren stories since thus far, he is without.