Though ’tis not enough to make up for my complete neglect of these tender pages, here are the strawberries who personally welcomed me to Southern California.
Leaving grey, snowy, dreary, cold, gorgeous, fateful New York wasn’t so hard in the depths of March as luck would have it. And trolling the local farmers market on the first Sunday here yielded an agricultural orgasm of the strawberry variety. With this much sunshine it’s no wonder passionfruit are for sale at 30 cents each.
SoCal has changed since last I lived here. That alien plague of Hipsters has infected these desert lands as they have all habitable parts of the planet (Papua New Guinea are you immune?). The food scene has blessedly departed from the ubiquitous, trophy-wife inspired tuna tartare and Cobb salad to a more locavor-ian style of meat and veggie presentation. Dining and drinking is no longer dominated by Shrek-necks with tribal tattoos drinking under coconut cabanas while their Ugg boot wearing girlfriends pick their Victoria’s Secret booty shorts out of their asses. And for this and many other blessings I am grateful.
So here I am. Let’s see what happens next.
Not paid for by the California Tourism Commission.
But they should give me a holler if they would like to. I need a job.