He was tall and lanky with a dark whiff of a beard. If not for the logo emblazoned on his shirt, it would’ve been hard to know he was a beef jerky salesman at all. The woman next to him was upset, and understandably so. Her arms were crossed, brows
The waves tempered off as morning turned to afternoon in Huntington Beach but a three-to-five foot swell was enough for Vans U.S. Open of Surfing competitors to find their rhythm in the water.
“Rhythm plays a big part in the surfing game,” said the Vans U.S. Open of Surfing announcer, a reflective wistfulness darkening his ever-spritely tone. The waves had calmed to a soft lull, lake-like and placid. “That’s the flow of the ocean,” he continued. “Some days you got it, some days
Ten minutes deep into a Phantom of the Opera-inspired uphill climb on the elliptical, my phone rings. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have answered but the gym was empty and something about seeing the incoming call flash across my screen just as “Angel of Music” was reaching its soaring crescendo gave
“For Daisy Ree” the bench read, as if there was no one else whose name could find itself etched into the old, snarled wood. June had already breathed in and out of a midsummer in mid-July, the late-night darkness was already glazed with gray dawn. Staying up until the sun
Saturday night in a crowded bar, standing betwixt desiccated beer droppings and sweaty bro-funk, the guy I’d spent 20 minutes talk-shouting to—there’s no other way to converse in a Bon Jovi-blasting pub—grabs my hand, tenderly and with both of his, looks right into my eyes and says, “You’re kind of weird, aren’t you?”
“And I don’t need one other thing, except my dog.” – Steve Martin, The Jerk The road to Big Bear, CA, for those who have never been, is a tale of paved unexpectation. What begins as a characterless, fifty-three lane freeway—rough estimate—soon turns to a thin, serpentine course that twines ’round swelling, green-pine landscape
Excuse me Southern California but do you know you’re … Southern California? That means, as stated in the official Mother Nature’s Guide to SoCal Weekends, you must be ceaselessly sunny on Saturdays and also provide as good or better weather than all states along the Eastern coastline. (How can we possibly maintain our reputation as the “Best