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
After the election, he went off and found himself—got fat and happy, grew that beard, and took on global warming—and I like what he found, especially the global warming.
Now I'd just like to see him in an Armani suit.
On our way out, we stopped by the Camp's little fire pit. There, Joe Allen from the museum had organized a little hoedown, and instead of 1000 people crushing around, there were one, two, three, seven, nine. Nine is such a nicer number. And instead of dirgey surf boys, there were two women from New Jersey. And instead of sounding like a poor man's Jack Johnson, Sharon Vanetten and Corbi Wright sounded like a rich man's Shawn Colvin, with the phrasing of Marianne Faithful and Joni Mitchell's pure,sweet trills. They were beautiful, and it was sweet and peaceful, the tiny crowd silent and rapt and snickering only when a gaggle of girls in high-heeled shoes noisily clacked their way past us to Aire.
Clack clack clack. Click clack.
Vanetten and Wright left for San Francisco to spread their loveliness by the Bay, while I was home and in bed by nine p.m. to watch SNL take on Hillary Clinton but fierce, and to win two more Pulitzers and a beau.
Chris Isaak sends his love.