Overall, I’d have to give this weekend pretty high marks.

Did an open mike, went to a rundown and crappy county fair, registered to vote in the new state, went to Wal-Mart, barbecued a bit, wrote a bit, fixed a referrer on my website, swam in the Pacific ocean (for the first time since my buddy who is now a full professor was in grad school in San Diego) and had some steamers with a very local Pinot Grigio on a pier.

I always feel good spending a day around the water and dining on sea creatures as a closer. But, California knows dick about a good bucket of steamers. Perhaps that’s do to the lack of little necks. It was some other kind of teeny clam in what wasn’t really a bucket, but something upper scale, and there was a garlicky, chive-y, buttery broth in which they were swimming. No such thing as unadulterated steamed clams with drawn butter on the side in these parts.

My cross-country move loses luster when I consider the clams. (Not to mention our fried seafood entrees include fries (as they should) and steamed zucchini. Heresy, really, fresh veggies with your fish and chips. Fucking California and its agricultural and health.)

Although, I guess the counterbalance to sub-par seafood tradition is weekends with M. and Dee that are so chockfull of sweetness and fun, it borders on revolting.