Traveling can be a contact sport. This was especially true on a recent flight from Lima to Cusco that was marked by turbulence followed by a silent vow that if I were to survive the flight, I would become a better person.
What a difference a few degrees makes. Under 100 during the day, under 70 at night. Six degrees can be the difference between hope and despair. The difference between crisp and sloppy.
A friend showed up to coffee with a knife. I respected her before but gave her a wider berth than usual. There could be a reason somebody brings a knife to coffee but you want to make sure that reason isn’t you.
On the second to last day of vacation, I thought I saw a woman crossing the street with her left breast resting nonchalantly on the outside of her snow white blouse.
The only thing to do on a hot summer day is see “Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again.” The movie is touching, funny, entertaining and no doubt a lot of fancy people won’t like it.
To reach Rosedale Remedies, the cannabis shop on Rosedale Highway, you have to drive by Budget Bolts, Pittsburgh Paint, All Star Glass, Majestic Palms, Gentle Dental, The Bulk Yard, Highland Church of Christ, Lucky Liquors and Hungry Howie’s Pizza. When you see Country Boy Drive-in, you’re close.
His final set list started with “Smile.” Most people in the church were far from pulling that off but Dominick Pisano believed in the power of music to lift people’s spirits and he wasn’t going to waste an opportunity with a captive audience.
You want to take 16 people to Poland? All of whom who are related to you? Then you have to believe, have a plan or believe in your plan like Lucas and Anna Dobrzanski did.
Wimbledon is the one tournament a year when tennis looks fun. Doable. Something you might try even if the rest of the year you either don’t play tennis or think about tennis.
I ran into Jessica Pounds (owner of Moo Creamery) at the downtown July 4th parade. She talked about the column on the raw vegetable platters people serve at parties that everybody pretends to like, but no one really does.
I was at a party, recently. Sitting on the food table was the traditional raw vegetable platter that included baby carrots, broccoli florets, celery stalks chopped into bite-sized pieces, raw mushrooms and cauliflower. A tub of hummus sat in the middle of the vegetables.
I asked a friend the other day if he was watching the World Cup. His face went blank. He turned his head and looked directly into the sun, preferring to blind himself rather than having to watch two 45-minute halves of soccer
With grandchildren, you try to get the jump. Angle to be the first. Be the one who introduces them to jelly beans, Pop Tarts and mint chip ice cream.
Dogs are like teachers. They have a lot of free time but earn it. Dogs because they put up with fleas, and teachers because the job comes with students.
Saturday night I am singing “Walk the Line,” and “Ring of Fire,” by Johnny Cash in the Music Media Jam at the Crystal Palace. A fundraiser for the Kern County Cancer Fund, MMJ was started by Steve Flores, who lost his wife to cancer.
My editor, Stef, had a request. Stef has a million-dollar smile and has become a fine editor, having learned to be on her toes with at least one of the people whom she edits.
Bakersfield is on a roll. A few months ago Bakersfield-born poet Frank Bidart wins the Pulitzer and on Sunday, South High graduate Alan Shorr won a Tony as one of the producers (he finds the money) for “The Band’s Visit,” a musical that is attracting record crowds on Broadway.
Big news at work. It happened the Tuesday after Memorial Day. Sometimes the hammer falls after a holiday weekend when people stumble in and are easily dislodged from their cozy little perches.
A couple of days ago I drove by BHS. Griffith Field was being prepared for graduation. Workers were unloading the white chairs from the rolling racks and then setting the rows straight and true.
I’d gone to a convenience store to buy a regular Gatorade and one package of Sabritas lime-flavored peanuts, actually two because they have a permanent two-for-99-cents deal, which makes the second one hard to pass up.
Philip Roth’s death earlier this week brought back memories. I took a class from him during my senior year in college called "Readings in the Novel," held Tuesday afternoons. Seven years earlier, Roth had written “Portnoy’s Complaint,” the novel which launched him into the literary stratosphere.
I opened the paper Sunday to a picture of Harvey Hall under which was the date of his birth and death. Although Harvey hadn’t looked well the last few times I’d seen him, that brief period of frailty will not be my lasting memory but rather his robustness accentuated by ramrod-straight postu…
Dad left me a black wallet. Not me specifically, but the wallet was in his desk drawer next to his watch that had returned from the repair shop in good working order. No one else wanted them because the watch wasn’t a Piaget and the wallet not a Givenchy.
I’d never heard of artist Charles Arnoldi but the artists I haven’t heard of and the things I don’t know could fill the Louvre and the New York Library. Arnoldi, and his wife, Katie, were at the Bakersfield Museum of Art Thursday night for the opening of his exhibition “Forms: A Fifty Year Survey.”
There are places that remind us of people. With Mike Marotta, it may be the stretch of road on Alfred Harrell Highway, beginning with the rise west of the soccer fields, and ending 200 yards later at the top, after he has laid down another withering pull, scattering fellow cyclists in his wa…