Though, “not a breeder,” going to a wedding tonight without his wife still feels awkward.
He’s old school L.A.
We reminisce like seniors over the old neighborhood, global warming and high school harassment.
He’s traded the vernacular of “dude” for and “hella,” only goes back home for family and tattoos.
Playing percussion in experimental bands and roasting coffee, he can’t remember why he moved here, but he certainly does fit.
Imbued with thoughtfulness, he apologizes for not having a pump to lend me, and yells after someone who drops their sweater.
“This BART drivers pretty considerate, don’t you think?”
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