Goin' Native

Egad, Max has finally converted. He's been stealing low-hanging avocados from the neighbor's tree, meticulously peeling them and then having a party. It seems California has the power to convert even a hardened carnivore.

And so one's mind wanders to a new person who will think everyone has backyard avocados, but who has never eaten barbeque, nor rafted the Guadeloupe river, nor walked through the Alamo (Drafthouse or mission, take your pick), nor driven twelve hours in a straight line without leaving the state, nor fished in the Gulf of Mexico, nor can say he or she knows someone just like each of the characters on King of the Hill. It could bring a tear to your eye. California for all its wonders and charms is home, but not home -- if one can distinguish home, where one hangs one's hat, from Home, where one hangs one's ancestors. *rimshot* To get at the meat of the matter, it's unfair to pit Californian avocados against Texan barbeque. Both are delicacies enjoyed by people ... and apparently dogs ... everywhere.

More on this topic later. Right now, I have to visit the butcher's shop and get Max back on a suitable diet. And he needs a haircut: starting to look like a hippie.