Love entered in my heart one day A sad, unwelcome guest. But when it begged that it might stay I let it stay and rest It broke my nights with sorrowing It filled my heart with fears And, when my soul was prone to sing, It filled my eyes with tears. But...now that it has gone its way, I miss the dear ole pain. And, sometimes, in the night I pray That Love might come again.
There is science, logic, reason; there is thought verified by experience. And then there is California.
California is like an artificial limb the rest of the country doesn't really need. You can quote me on that.
CALIFORNIA: From Latin 'calor', meaning "heat" (as in English 'calorie' or Spanish 'caliente'); and 'fornia', for "sexual intercourse" or "fornication." Hence: Tierra de California, "the land of hot sex."
Living in California adds ten years to a man's life. And those extra ten years I'd like to spent in New York.
Or what about the statue in California currently said to be crying bloody tears? Why worry about the alleged weeping of a plaster effigy when so many actual human beings have reason to cry?
California is a great place to live if you're an orange.
Californians invented the concept of life-style. This alone warrants their doom.
California is a fine place to live--if you happen to be an orange.
Voicemail #1: “Hi, Isabel Culpeper. I am lying in my bed, looking at the ceiling. I am mostly naked. I am thinking of … your mother. Call me.†Voicemail #2: The first minute and thirty seconds of “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You†by the Bee Gees. Voicemail #3: “I’m bored. I need to be entertained. Sam is moping. I may kill him with his own guitar. It would give me something to do and also make him say something. Two birds with one stone! I find all these old expressions unnecessarily violent. Like, ring around the rosy. That’s about the plague, did you know? Of course you did. The plague is, like, your older cousin. Hey, does Sam talk to you? He says jack shit to me. God, I’m bored. Call me.†Voicemail #4: “Hotel California†by the Eagles, in its entirety, with every instance of the word California replaced with Minnesota. Voicemail #5: “Hi, this is Cole St. Clair. Want to know two true things? One, you’re never picking up this phone. Two, I’m never going to stop leaving long messages. It’s like therapy. Gotta talk to someone. Hey, you know what I figured out today? Victor’s dead. I figured it out yesterday, too. Every day I figure it out again. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like there’s no one I can —†Voicemail #6: “So, yeah, I’m sorry. That last message went a little pear-shaped. You like that expression? Sam said it the other day. Hey, try this theory on for size: I think he’s a dead British housewife reincarnated into a Beatle’s body. You know, I used to know this band that put on fake British accents for their shows. Boy, did they suck, aside from being assholes. I can’t remember their name now. I’m either getting senile or I’ve done enough to my brain that stuff’s falling out. Not so fair of me to make this one-sided, is it? I’m always talking about myself in these things. So, how are you, Isabel Rosemary Culpeper? Smile lately? Hot Toddies. That was the name of the band. The Hot Toddies.†Voicemail #20: “I wish you’d answer.