You can tell normalcy is making a comeback when the talk of the town turns to coyotes.
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Joy to the world?
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It may be where the heart is, but it’s also where history, judgment, anxiety, lawyers and distant cousins of the decedent are.
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He’s Dave Bergman. And you — to your eternal chagrin — are not. Simple as that.
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I talk a big game when it comes to lasagna. But, to tell the unbaked truth, I think I eat more of Sonia’s spaghetti these days.
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First text this morning — early, Amsterdam time — came as I was fitfully dozing between acts of a CNN dream-play about the apocalypse.
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Eventually, in Amsterdam, you get up from the blank wall.
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We’ve been holed up here a week. Superannuated gangsters of something or other, gone to the mattresses.
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Sonia made lasagna. And all night people who’d never been to Sorellas, didn’t know from the chef sister, saying: Man, that is delicious.
“’Cause he gets up in the morning, And he goes to work at nine.”
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The stages of adulthood for a guy constitutionally unsuited to it begin, of course, with fraud.
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I once ran into Huey Lewis jogging. The guy who did “I Want a New Drug.”
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“HOFFMAN JACKED ON PCP! CALL FAIRFAX PD! BE THERE AT 8.”
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Sandy wants to know — again — if the salmon is wild.
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The sisters aren’t sure. And that uncertainty, along with their essential modesty, was reflected in the night’s celebration.
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“I got a rich guy carrying my stuff!”
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“In Penny Lane the barber shaves another customer”
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When a man in San Francisco leapt from 22 stories and almost landed on me, I scrambled to the family table.
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In the redwood shadows at the far end of Wood Lane in the small Northern California town residents call Mayberry on Acid stand a dozen horses.
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It’s not always Saturday night at Sorellas, you know. And that’s just the kind of crap that ticks him off.
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