Pretty much I think we lived a Northern California cliche today. The kind of cliche that lends itself to the smugness of the Bay Area about quality of life, beautiful vistas and whatnot. Probably would have been a good time for an earthquake just to keep my New England sensibilities about nothing ever getting too good being allowed.
A co-worker had gotten through an auction an afternoon's wine tour and tasting. We toured, we tasted and then we picknicked. Lovely.
And, the boy-o got to drive the new wheels through winding mountain roads.
Better yet, the dad who was the essential host of the event is a geologist, specializing in the kind of fossil fuel ooze that creates wars and protests and hybrids and Hummers. I love old dude characters.
I learned today that there's a big ole pool of black gold under L.A. Apparently, drilling through Beverly Hills High could gets us more than a few satisfying barrels of crude. All with the added attraction of being a quick commute to where the cars are. No pesky pipelines.
So the next time the Hollywood elite environmentalists get going, it'll be tough not to ponder saving ANWAR and letting LA take the heat.
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LA is the Newark of California.
Which may be selling it high. Looks and personality wise, the edge still goes to the women of Newark.
That’s what I’m talking about. So why not suck up all the oil and let LaLaLand go the way of the fossils that made the fuel.