I remember driving out Silverbell, a curving tow-laner with the foothills rising on the left and dropping to the green Santa Cruz on the right, below the Catalina’s and Rincon’s over town. San drive through the desert, only a sprinkling of houses until we got to the steakhouse all lit up, with food and music and locals on a Saturday night. Even a kid knew it was a Real Deal.
—D.C. Davis
This article appears in Jun 30 – Jul 6, 2016.
Wasn’t there counterfeit money buried under mesquite trees? Fun times.
Oh, come on…
“Tow-laner”?
“Catalina’s”?
“Santa Rita’s”?
“San”?
Does anyone even bother to proof this crap, or is it just a matter of stringing enough letters together to fill a space?
I honestly came here looking for a bit of light prose. Instead, I got a headache.
Jesus
Fucking
Christ.