Last week, I put down my phone. I went two days without checking emails or text messages. I felt like I kicked Oxycontin, at least for 48 hours.
Recently, it was Wool Growers for dinner. I assume most people in town have been to Wool Growers, but given that it is perched on East 19th Street, the East part may scare some off. If “East” deters, then they might be unfamiliar with the bustling hub of restaurants in east Bakersfield that …
I started January with two things: muffins and “True Grit.” They seemed related and I thought it might make sense trying to figure out why. If they weren’t, both were worth talking about anyway.
Have we forgotten the allure of the soft roll? Soft and buttery, top to bottom and side to side. Soft and flecked with salt on the outside. Soft as your softest pillow.
Once a year, twice is better, it makes sense to go through your stuff. Otherwise you can become submerged in things you may use and clothes you might wear.
I’ll bet you didn’t know there were dental implants available for $350. I’d been quoted around $1,500 per implant, but a billboard on Interstate 5 near Downey suggested I might be overpaying should I pay that much. I didn’t know if the implants were made of Halloween wax or PVC but $350 seem…
I tried to put my blue swimsuit on but Michael Phelps had a problem. The drawstring was unusually long on one side and had disappeared on the other. I had a short and a long.
I make breakfast Christmas morning. I own Christmas breakfast. My Christmas breakfast has become legendary in the family and among friends lucky enough to have eaten it.
Every Christmas for the last 45 years, Jeff Jenks has fashioned an animated Christmas scene replete with snow in the window of Jenks Tire Co. on 21st across from Sinaloa Restaurant.
Don’t let Joan Garibaldi fool you. Sure, you might hear about her charity work, her mothering and grandmothering skills, her hospitality and her proficiency in keeping a bunco game together for 58 years since 1959.
Sometimes a home resists home improvement. No matter how much you think about it, fret over it or plan to change it. Things go south and keep going, harnessing the tailwinds of failure.
We’re out of shape. Not fitness shape, but watching a 2½-year-old boy shape. That shape makes regular shape look like it’s out of shape.
No snow here, not much rain, but falling leaves. In Bakersfield, leaves count for weather. A welcome stand-in for rain and snow. The best man at your wedding when your first choice is unable to attend.
Last week, we took the photo for the family Christmas card. Although it sounds simple, given the digital pool of pictures from which to choose, a good family photo may be more difficult to produce than getting into vet school.
Sandy James sent a note — handwritten, in cursive — about the joys of east Bakersfield. Her theme was that east Bakersfield has gotten short shrift lately as the town spins south and north.
My enduring memory of Jeff Thomson, who died Oct. 10, was being with him in a duck blind. As he scanned the horizon, he had never seemed more at peace and never happier.
In a good used bookstore, you can walk but may be walking sideways. Shuffling. Moving your feet carefully to avoid kicking over the stacks and then readying your hands in the grab-a-book-that-is-falling position.
Recently, we were eating at a nice restaurant, one with white tablecloths, silverware bound in cloth napkins, flowers in a crystal vase and a basket of warm bread flanked by a small bowl rimmed with cool pats of sweet butter.
A few weeks ago, the printer at home stopped working. I am the IT man in our house, which sounds good but it isn’t. Dante’s description about the entrance of hell also applies to me being the IT man: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
All safaris start with good safari wear and I couldn’t wait to wear mine. I had a tan tracker shirt and tan pants, both with multiple pockets in which the brave tracker can stash ranch-flavored Corn Nuts should he have to distract an angry rhino who is hot on his trail.
The rest of year, it’s nothing. Not nothing, but almost nothing. Near enough to nothing that when I drive by the fairgrounds in February, May or in the dead of August, I am flooded by memories of the fair in all its homey, corny and magnificent-in-its-own way glory.
I like getting gas, especially before a road trip when filling up is coupled with cruising through Cruz Thru Express Carwash.
If, when I die, I end up in music heaven, my requested lineup will be the Grateful Dead (Jerry Garcia intact), Crosby Stills Nash (with Neil Young) and, as the opening act, the Cordovas. But luckily I don't have to wait until I punch my ticket to enjoy one of those acts, since the Nashville-…
I got a kick out of Milt and some of it had to do with fitness, a subject about which he was serious. Milt was Milt Younger, the attorney who died recently. He, however, had graduated to one-name status a long time ago.
It had been 30 years since I had played on clay but the joy flooded back. The warmup was slow and languorous, the court seemed bigger, not bad bigger, but bigger with possibilities and places to explore.
It is challenging, if not unwise, to pass Manchester Boulevard off the 405 and Randy's without stopping for their cinnamon crumb cake doughnuts.
Bear with me, this piece could run awhile. Grandparents' Day, which is Sunday, is hard to keep to 500 words. Five hundred words is a warmup. Five hundred words is a throat clearer because any grandparent worth his or her salt could go biblical in length and Al Michael in superlatives.