Maybe I am not a professional basketball player, but I am happy with this ending.

I am happy with this ending: Mike Colado, sunken living room sleep over, truth or dare and magic mushroom pizza, sixth grade, the gods must be crazy and goonies, too much soda. The pool out back, his father's mustache like the shag carpet we slept on. The unbreakable coffee mug we hit with a hammer. I am happy with this ending.

His house, though, on a hill: I cannot seem to place it on the map in my mind.

This Blog is the Fault of The Pogues

Now when I think of people from the distant past, my first inclination is to look them up on Facebook. Upon searching their names, old faces are replaced with douchebags from Astoria, cockily holding Airsofts with I-don't-care-about-high-school-because-my-dad's-confidently-invested-in-hedgefunds, shit-eating, goddamn grins on their manicured faces.

In that sentence, back there where I typed "invested"? I, at-first, accidentally, typed "infested."

Today on a bike ride, the clouds doubled the size of the hills where Lake Berryessa lay, and I realized that California allows you to predict the future. The clouds pile. Soon it will be summer in Siam. And tomorrow is rain. Tomorrow is rain. Tomorrow is rain.