West Coast beard
Of all the alleged disparities between the two seashores—East
Coast stout, West Coast stout—East Coast political outrage, West Coast political
outrage—East Coast romantic suspense, West Coast romantic suspense—East Coast
brooding, West Coast brooding—East Coast potato dish, West Coast potato dish—and
so forth, I am here to report that my beard, modest as it may be, appears to be
growing according to universal patterns of bearded development. This is
noteworthy, since I have grown a beard, modest as it may be, both on the East
Coast, where I formerly resided, and on the West Coast, where I currently
reside.
The corner turret
If you care to know, I am situated most often at longitude
40 degrees, 52 minutes, 14 seconds North, latitude 124 degrees, 5 minutes, 11
seconds West, in the corner turret. Currently, me and my beard are looking out the
corner turret at 88 degrees East toward the Arcata Community Forest. Currently,
me and my beard are drinking a West Coast stout, Deschutes Obsidian Stout, oh
yes, we heartily recommend this fine brew, do me and my beard. Afterwards,
technically, we are both “beered” as the kids say. East Coast puns, West Coast
puns: they’re all pretty dreadful in the end. But the forest is not dreadful.
The forest is tall, quiet, cathedral, sage, vigilant.
East Coast beard
I am assimilating among the peoples of the West Coast, which
is all to say that I am engaging in comparisons (as you can tell). If you live
on the East Coast, then we must traverse great distances in order to keep company,
but we shall, traverse great distances and keep company, you and I. If you
reside on the West Coast, then the distances to traverse aren’t so great, and
let us traverse them, you and I, for my abode might house you if you might need
housing, and my abode might feed you, if you need nourishment, and my abode
might uncork the wonders of song and drink, if you need merriment, and you do.
The door is always open, friend.
This Posts Is Part of New Home California Day.
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5 comments:
Stout in the turret. Not a terrible way to go down.
Stout in the turret. Not a terrible way to go down.
I'm halfway up the hill. Lo, if the wave cometh, I might even have half a chance to make it all the way up the hill. Otherwise, yes, I shall face the floodwaters with a stout in hand. In the turret.
--------BA
Yeah!
Roight. BA
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