There are times in these perilous times that I figure that being in California is being in one of those places people go for succor. Not entirely safe, but extraordinarily fun. And deep. One day I woke up at 9,000 feet in the prosperous burg of Mammoth Lakes, by nightfall I was at sea level in Berkeley, downing oysters plucked from their beds just hours past. Made possible by car, gasoline, highways, roadside stands, no-town restaurants and desire. To carry my bicycle (Li'l Darlin'!) to the eastern Sierra, to ride for an entire day in that sere, gigantic landscape. To smell those Jeffrey pines, those specific ones, some of them with names, like The Pipecleaner. To crunch the pumice under my feet and hear Rainbow Falls.
When I returned home to Oakland on September 7, 2008 I kept seeing the dirtiest cars I have ever seen. I mean crusty. Then today, I saw another one on Alcatraz Avenue. Someone had scrawled with their finger "I love the playa" on its window. Ah ha. I finally got it. These were all Burning Man veterans, all over the place, home from another set of marvelous California stories. Do tell!
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