By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
At that point, of course, and as sweet as sugar kisses, I said, "Well, I'm a Communist too, so that works out great!" And then he said, all nasty and mean, "Why don't you go back to Germany!" before he hurried inside to escape anyone actually standing up to him.
Oh, dear dickweed man! There I'd been in Yosemite, feeling an alien emotion that utterly confused me: pride. It actually made me cry, the pride and beauty and all that nature, done saved up for you and for me. But you, big man in the minivan? There's the California I know and love!
We drove over the wicked high Sonora Pass to my brother in San Francisco, and down Highway 1 from there; it's the one vacation you can send any visitor on in full faith and credit that California will represent. Ain't nobody not gonna like Big Sur. My boy and I wound down the seaside for hours and days, finally arriving home to the potato chips and blood, whereupon I turned tail and walked out again. If I was home and it was Friday, it was time for the Canyon Inn. I met up with Long Tall Gina, and where the Canyon typically has your average bar cover bands who are generally pretty fun, Friday featured a wretched band that was all Creed-y, and I kept saying to Gina, "Ew, the singer was making Creed eyes at me!" and he was gross and kept flipping his greasy long Creed hair behind his ears and such, and the band was wretched, I mean WRETCHED, like they kept playing Stones songs but not knowing the words and "Sweet Home Alabama" but getting the verses wrong—what bar band doesn't know the verses to "Sweet Home Alabama"?—and the singer was sharp the whole time, and they sucked.
During their last song—Creed's "With Arms Wide Open"—we finally figured out how to make a finger-sign Jesus fish instead of your usual devil horns, so we were plenty pleased and happy to be home indeed.