Fires are good.
During my whole stay in Cali, I haven't gotten to experience a typical beach bonfire...complete with banjos nor booze.
Last night I decided to put my foot down. So I ran around the hostel collecting one American dollar from everyone, and pooled enough money for a couple bundles of firewood. I also gathered up a big old guy to help me carry it all back, except he held the beer and cigarettes while giving me the bundles of wood and nagged the whole two blocks back.
It lit up our whole deck and cast glowing smiles on our drunken tired faces.
Then the new crew from Minnesota pulled out their trumpets and played us some jazz music, while a little bird named Holly chimed in. (By the way, they're called Steve Sullivan and the Factory band)
The smoke from the fire blew into our eyes, in our hair and deep in our pores.
Sniff sniff if only I could capture that smell in a bottle.
Cuddled with accented boys and fell asleep in unloving abandoned arms, only to be pushed out of his bed on second thought.
I take nothing from debauched boys anymore... I know it all too well and most nights in California end in the same way.
At least my Jack Daniels sweater was still doused in old smoke...and I will not wash it out. Ever.