I am excited next morning to blow out of Coronado.
Only ten minutes and a world away is a pulsating city.
The elegant U.S. Grant Hotel processes us into a pair of Signature Suites and we revel in space and fine appointments and walk-in showers.
Across the street: the famed historic district known as Gaslamp.
The concierge recommends Café 21, which introduces us to The San Diego Wait: The food is great, but you wait a long time for it.
Their Lavish Wrap is worth waiting for.
The concierge also recommends Dobson’s—a local hang for judges and lawyers —for a 5:33 cocktail.
I find myself a stool at bar’s end and order liquid crystal, scribble into my notebook.
Banks do not produce anything. They do not grow or process foodstuff.
They do not manufacture.
They just take everyone’s money and re-lend it, and lend money they don’t even have, and operate credit cards at extortionate interest.
And by doing so, they are able to afford the best buildings, pay the highest salaries, and the highest annual bonuses—while everyone who actually produces stuff gets boned.
Makes you think…
Wells Fargo, HSBC, Chase…
A sad orangutan is gesturing either up yours or come here so I can see what you taste like.
A fish with the kind of lips I see on women every week in Montecito.
A polar bear languishing in 80-degree heat, which saddens me as much as the best buildings belonging to banks.
My first novel about a road trip has been acquired by Skyhorse Publishing in New York City.
It will be published in Fall 2016.