I had an email exchange with an East Coast buddy about my alleged edge. She was worrying that without anything to piss me off, I wouldn’t have quite the same humor, I think.

I do have the freakish Wacko Jacko getting a free hand to, well, have a free hand. Another fine example, along with Fatty Arbuckle, OJ Simpson and Robert Blake of California juris prudence.

Do you think M. maybe invited me out here, because it seems so much harder to get a conviction? Of course, he ain’t a celebrity, so he could go the way of Scott Peterson if he offs me.

With things going well, though, I don’t have the lemons life hands you to make lemonade and all that other happy horseshit. Nope, out here I got real lemons.

M. mentioned to a co-worker my fetish for Cali flora. I walk around in utter amazement at trees especially, because they, like, have fruit and shit growing off them. Not like crabapples either, but fruit you could actually enjoy. (One thing that surprises me every time I go out on my bike is riding by a freshly groomed lawn. In so many piles of lawn clippings are what look to me like perfectly good pieces of fruit. I first think something along the line of “Someone must have dropped some groceries,” followed by a “Duh.”)

I know, I sound like an idiot or maybe some kind of edited out character transplanted in Gulliver’s Travels, but, hey, I’m an ex-pat of sorts.

Given my fruit freakishness, M.’s co-worker presented him with a garbage bag of fresh from his tree, organically grown lemons. And, for the first time, I’ve held in my hand a lemon bigger than a softball (or as M. pointed out larger than my rack).

Check out the relatively normal-sized lemon on the right and the mango for scale and for a non-fruit comparison, the cell phone.