There’s a moment—barely—when you see both ocean and bay from the 280 as it mills north near Millbrae, the waters flash what they know of daylight, and you register being a sort of gliding porch before dunking back under cypress
Barry was six-foot-six, fifteen like me, floating layups and hook shots over our heads through the hoop in my driveway. We called him Big Bird for dwarfing us, for his slappy feet, for the mouth that hung in a grin at all
My father spoke: Look at this, he said to me. We were walking through an alley from somewhere to somewhere else in Brooklyn. In front of us, a man with white hair and a white beard reached into a dumpster, plucked out a bag of potato chips...
chicken breast soaked in vanilla, aluminum foil and leather doused in WD-40, one day on a pack of green apple bubble gum. lured a large swirl around a grapevine, lead to a plastic bag