My publisher commissioned a piece of erotica centered around the Porter Ranch disaster. The whole thing gave me a headache. It were too early to forgive the SoCalGasCo just like it were too soon to forgive myself for banging on the cracks until they became holes. Shit, my publisher would probably like that last part.
Porter Ranch, El Coyote closing its doors, I thought of those mythical margaritas we soaked up that fiery hot day, damn, it was all over.
I brung a metal detector up to Porter Ranch. I knew it were stupid. I knew it were an excuse to make something of nothing, treasure of dust.
It sucks missing a place that the other person doesn't even know is gone
