Lately |

Mar 26

what’s in my bag

We were sitting in a van with not especially functional air conditioning in an especially hot part of the planet talking about not much of anything. The landscape blurred. The air conditioning labored.

We got to joking about the weird things we carry. My bag and its collection of odd ball contents had already become a running joke among us. Hungry? I got you. Bleeding? Well, I can fix that, too. At least temporarily.

I promised my friends I’d make a list in the spirit of Glamour’s recurring feature. It pretty much goes without saying that Glamour’s bags are way more, well, glamourous than mine. But I’m pretty sure I have more snacks — and snacks always win.

So here goes!

Oct 10

postcard

Morning light, Tunnel Trail, Santa Barbara.

Oct 3

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the wait

after a while the heat begins to feel like a tangible thing, like a burden we carry on our shoulders as we go about our days.

or maybe it’s an oozing amoeboid mass, the spawn of some alien being who visited from a faraway planet just long enough to leave it behind. it rises out of the pavement and emanates from the blinding stucco walls, entangling us in its sticky embrace. maybe that’s what it is.

the power goes out, the stoplights stare sightlessly. the apocalypse feels near like maybe we’ve trespassed against something far larger than we are. the traffic snarls and stalls, the sun beats down, impassive.

the sun sets, the heat stays. sirens whine in the distance and their cries linger in the dry air. a hot wind blows down from the hills. the leaves scrape and whisper, brown and dry like the pages of a newspaper left too long in the sun.

the heat hangs suspended in the darkness. we pace through the restless nights as the wind tells of fire. we turn to the sea hopeful, as though somewhere in it depths hides the antidote to our troubles. the infinite blue taunts, but offers no promises.

and so we wait.

Aug 13

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late summer

late summer farmers market is the best farmers market. the end.

Apr 29

3 Comments

Coffee Drinkers’ Guide to the Amgen Tour of California, Vol. 2

blue_espresso

Welcome to the Coffee Drinker’s Guide to the Amgen Tour of California.

This is the second annual Guide, which is to say, we’ve reached the terrible twos, screaming and teething and drooling all over the joint. If this is your first time, don’t worry. Everything will be just fine. Also, you can find last year’s edition at Paved, may it live forever in our espresso-blackened hearts.

So you’re going to the Amgen Tour of California and you like coffee. You are totally in the right place. We’re going to tell you where to get your fix at every stop on the race. That’s it. It’s all so terribly simple.

This year’s race begins in Sacramento on Sunday, 5 May and finishes in Thousand Oaks on Sunday, 18 May. That’s a whole lot of coffee right there.

Stage 1: Sacramento

“Love what you do. Life is short, so celebrate it!” The people at Old Soul sound like our kind of people. They roast coffee and make bread in a wherehouse in Sacramento. We could not confirm the existence of a La Marzocco, the sure sign of good coffee. But there is a photo of their roaster, which is a very good start. The building has bricks. This is also promising. Life is risk, but we’re feeling pretty good about this one. Go to Old Soul, drink all their coffee.

Jan 20

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dream date

the pebbles roll under my toes. i like how it feels, the push and tug of the tide. i am in the shallows at a mysto reef break that somehow picked today to come alive. i shall make waves today, it decided, purely on a whim. or so it seems.

the place goes flat for so long, it eventually becomes impossible to believe it even exists. it’s like the great pumpkin, looking for the most earnest pumpkin patch, and never quite finding it.

the waves come up on the horizon, a mirage, a dream. you walk down the trail, turn the corner, and there it is. alive.

the first wave crashes over my head like a judgement, some kind of punishment for sins i no longer remember. there’s nothing dreamlike now. up close, the water froths and spits. the ocean, she gets angry sometimes.

and of course everyone’s here. the word goes out. someone texts his best friend who tells one other dude who calls his best friend who tells the guy at the coffee shop and before long, we all know. there are no secrets.

there are pros on their stickered up boards, locals on their lunchbreaks, the crazy dude who never shuts up, the girl who can’t really surf but sits on the main peak anyway. the dudes burn her, which isn’t nice. but it is predictable. when it’s like this, nobody’s feeling generous.

paddle, look left, pull back, paddle again. paddle, look left, get one. too bad it’s a close-out. back into the rhythm, i lose track of time, the dropping tide and shifting sun tell of hours passing. paddle, look left, go.

then we’re on the beach. a guy’s calling into work trying to sound like he’s not on the beach in his wetsuit, sand between his toes, salt-stuck hair. another dude is looking for sunscreen. i hand it over. i try not to drop my towel changing. life is about little victories.

the waves keep rolling through one after another, each more perfect than the last. the wind sleeps. the water is a mirror.

you never want it to end. that elusive perfection, it haunts your dreams.