Alameda

“Alameda” (A Short Pogh-Hymn)

Champagne. No corkscrew: so, champagne.

“The most important thing about opening champagne is to do it slow and not shake it.”

“And the second most important thing is to open it upside-down and spray it all over Dale Earnhardt. Or whoever wins NASCAR.”

“That's so trashy.”

“I know.”

Alameda.

“I see it! Volvo Volkswagen!”

Instead of correcting you like the asshole I am (“It's a Volvo Station Wagon; a Volkswagen is a make of car. From the German: Volk—meaning people—and Wagen—car”), I contented myself by thinking about how a Volvo Volkswagen would come to be.

Someone's driving a Volvo on 880 North at 80 miles an hour.

Someone's driving a Volkswagen on 880 South at 80 miles an hour.

One of them swerves through a break in the median. Head-on collision at 160 miles per hour: Volvo Volkswagen. It's mine. One-of-a-kind. No one else in the world owns a Volvo Volkswagen.

+++

I've got to move to San Francisco, or to the East Bay. This is the first time I've felt any attachment at all to a physical place, the first time I've had any sense of home, the first time I've cared enough about where I live and the people I know that I wouldn't immediately pack up and move anywhere in the world for ten cents more an hour.

Peas out.

V4L.