DANCING WITH A CAN OF DOLE

Finally Spring is here. In the next few days, people will air out their houses, discard their winter clothes, and throw out the cadavers of their relatives and housemates who croaked during the freezing months, which they were storing in their basements till the cold was over or saving up to win valuable prizes. And the turkey vultures circling in the air over the triangle formed by gas stations, tidal flats, and the freeway will feast!

Because that is what people in the suburbs do.


Their teenage sons and daughters will dance gaily naked in the green fields behind Mount Tamalpais, twirling cleverly braided ropes of wildflowers, and imbibing the bibe of highschool graduation.

That, too, is what people in the suburbs do.


Based on a hyperbolic statement I made, someone blinkered on Facebook accused me of hating teenagers and being a violent man. I wish to strongly deny that; teenagers are probably just delightful with barbecue sauce (tomatoes, chilies, brown sugar), and the most belligerent thing I've ever done is attend meaningful cultural rallies armed with a pillow.
I am Christian gentleness and fluff personified.


Pineapple does NOT belong on pizza; it belongs on teenagers.
Sweating in the grass behind Mount Tamalpais.


I love suburbanites.




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