
Williamsport Hint: It’s on the wedding finger, and covering a nice wedding gash.

Williamsport Hint: It’s on the wedding finger, and covering a nice wedding gash.
buy Clomiphene online with mastercard I came upon California quite by accident.
I was the transportation reporter for USA Today and based out of metro Washington, D.C. The paper sent me to Los Angeles to cover a NAFTA event, or conference, or duel, or orgy or something. That’s all I remember about the assignment.
What I’ll never forget is my rental car: A Chrysler Sebring convertible. And it was February, like now. And it was sunny, like now. And it was warm, like now.
I was so overcome by the glow that I remember putting the top down, hitting the first freeway out of the airport and driving, according to the freeway signs, toward the Mojave Desert.
I don’t think I reached it, but I may has well: I remember seeing an actual tumbleweed. I had only seen them in Bugs Bunny cartoons, yet there on was. Just rolling — on my side of the highway.
So I got out. And chased it in my Dockers and button-down. I don’t know why: I just needed to know it was real. And when I caught it, I brought it back and forced it into the trunk, like a hostage. I don’t know why I did that, either. But the Avis rental agent who checked me in must have been thrilled to see the mass of dry twigs in the trunk.
I knew then I was a California boy. I think the state does that to some people. For those who choose to call it home, there’s something that eclipses the vanity and humanity of the place, and there is certainly too much of both.
But there’s something to Cali that still feels American, in all the right ways, to me. There are parts of the West that still look as it must have to the settlers. Still open. Still warm. Still open to possibilities.
Like a tumbleweed.
So in honor this week of National California Day (Feb. 22), a FactSlap column, Golden Bear Edition:

In honor of National Bubblegum Day, a FactSlap column (Bazooka Joe remix):