Epistles from the Road: Radio Silence in San Francisco

Lit out from easily my grimiest hotel of the summer--Berkeley, it's sort of good to see you're still you--to make my usual Moe's Books/Amoeba round late last night. But the Berkeley Amoeba is a shadow, and Telegraph Avenue remains full of people, still awash in college kids and nattily dressed potential-student families and the homeless and clove smoke, and it hasn't exactly gentrified, the energy's still there, it's just missing...I don't know. A sense of collective political unrest or opposition? Art and artists? It's got everything but a reason for being the way it is, now. Or maybe it's just summer.

But right as I was leaving, I found...this.



This exists? This is a thing? I didn't dream this? And...I didn't MAKE this?

Borderlands this afternoon. Then a valedictory Zachary's spinach-and-mushroom stuffed pizza, on my own. Then the last, long drive home. To sit on my patio and read this.

Subscribe to this journal, please. Let's make this one go.