I make some pretty good breakfasts. Breakfast is usually an opportunity to eat as much as humanly possible because it is the first meal of the day and it will jump start your metabolism or some crap like that. This breakfast in particular is scrambled eggs topped with carmelized onions, sauteed peppers, applewood-smoked bacon, mozarella, and avocado. As you can imagine it was delicious.
Don’t let that deep shade of blue fool you, that water is COLD.
And then it’s all fun and games until a group of rambunctious teens wearing board shorts and Oakley sunglasses like Steeeee-vuhnnn! from Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County roll on in.
Brothers! This is Northern California, not the Ed Hardy discount outlet. This lil windproof cove is mine.
I’ve designated Sundays as Beach Sundays. It’s about all I do. I ride my bike to the beach, create a butt-well in the sand, throw my towel down hastily, and read for 2-3 hours while gulping down gallons of water.
![Calamari Plate at the Wharf - last Sunday [ note random carrot strip ]](http://12.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kst06iwNMA1qzd1leo1_500.jpg)
Calamari Plate at the Wharf - last Sunday [ note random carrot strip ]
Where is the humanity? The raw emotion in this shocked me to the core, and I am not even being sarcastic. It’s like watching a powerful giant accidentally put his salt shaker on top of a human waiter at his giant dinner table, and we all know giants never check the bottom of their salt shakers, they have better stuff to do with their time.
I’m not saying Google is the giant in this story here. Err, I don’t want to anger you, sir!
Rosy Paris Glasses
For the next week I intend to be awash in Paris nostalgia and I will post about everything related to Paris in hopes of transporting myself (mentally/spiritually) to that magical magical place. Of course my roses are glassy - err I mean my glasses are rosy; why correct that error, it’s a funny early morning one — my glasses are always rosy, unless they’re shades of angry resentful red.
Here’s a funny post about France not written by me in the meantime:
The unfortunate public “bathroom” experience left me feeling panicky and upset, so we tried to drive to this other town where there might be a real bathroom for me to get my equilibrium back. Luckily there was. Of course, it was across from an eleventh century monastery. BIG DEAL. We bought a bottle of mineral water for four euros to celebrate my deliverance from the limbo of unacceptable bathroom conditions. The lady who sold us the mineral water thought we were weird because we didn’t also want glasses. In France I learned that they are wild for glasses. No one drinks out of a bottle or can there. You always get a plastic cup with every single thing you drink. I think this is totally effed up, obviously, but it was as difficult to not get a plastic cup with your drink in France as it was to get workers in a Japanese bakery to not wrap your piece of bread in six sheets of decorative paper, secure each layer with a different cartoon sticker, put the whole bundle into a paper sack, roll the paper sack up, staple it shut with staples with cartoon characters on them, and then put THAT sack into another, slightly larger sack, roll THAT sack up, and staple THAT sack closed. At some point you just start saying “thank you.”
Regarding via Benett Madison, the author of that Blonde book that I’ve posted the review for below
“ Grade 9 Up—Val, friendless and adrift, finds Francie and adopts her religious devotion to slutty ensembles and shoplifting. Off-kilter humor, moody narration, and twisted psychology make this sardonic exploration of suburbia thrilling—like pocketing lip gloss and walking right out of the store. In Madison’s hands, tacky becomes fabulous and wrong weirdly morphs into holy. The girls rock conservative Sandra Dee High with gold lamé hot pants, big boobs, bigger hair, and heavy eyeliner. They travel daily to the glimmering Montgomery Shoppingtowne Mall to perfect the black art of stealing. Val and Francie zealously try to strip the place to its cement foundation. Contempt for false edifice and for the superficial frameworks behind home, school, and the mall fuel their obsessive devotion to thievery. Analytical readers will recognize metaphorical expressions of teen malaise throughout. A circuitous creek strings together teens living inside cookie-cutter houses with unnaturally green yards. However, Madison’s metaphors, while fascinating, often remain too murky, and character motivations remain unclear. When Val finally dumps Francie, readers aren’t exactly sure why. Francie’s unfunny blond jokes and even Val’s mysteriously dying brother never feel fully worked out, perhaps even in the author’s mind. But Madison’s tinkering with unclear, unexplained happenings also provides this imaginative novel with its wild-haired beauty. Dreamy collisions of reality and fantasy, of the nonsensical and impossible, make for a magical, slippery read.—Shelley Huntington, New York Public Library ”
The Blonde of the Joke
