theres nothing sexier than a guy playing guitar
a girl playing guitar
a tyrannosaurus rex playing guitar, struggling to strum with its tiny arms, fueled by rage and an inner desire to Rock
People here have different ideas of what it means to be Californian. When a hint of a valley girl accent pops from my lips (unfortunately this tends to happen when I am imparting a most serious message) someone will laugh,
“Your California’s showing!” And I’ll laugh along with them.
But when they do this they think of malls and bubble gum and only see my blonde hair and freckles.
“To know my California,” I want to tell them, “you must listen to Kate Wolf. Every song. Red Tailed Hawk first. And maybe even Chris Pureka’s California. If you’re feeling really adventurous, break out The Doobie Brothers, they won’t mind.
And then buy or borrow Steinbeck’s East of Eden. Read his descriptions of wildflowers. Try to taste the dry red dust with your mind. Try to name the color of dried grass, because you know it transcends brown. Imagine yourself wearing a white cotton shirt and cowboy boots, tasting grapes.
Listen to what the crows are trying to tell you. When the hills and valleys have parched you and you have my telltale freckles on your nose and shoulders, dive into the Redwoods. Munch on clover and squat down beside a banana slug. Fall over backwards trying to see the top of a Redwood. Feel the cold ocean mist brushing your face, and leave before the sun burns it off.
Then maybe, just maybe, you will understand my California.”