My dad lives in East Bay California, a vague place-name to let people know you don't live anywhere near LA. Many of these cities are uber-suburban: formerly arid farmland, these newish neighborhoods are incredibly clean and free from defect. In short, it kinda gives me the willies.

It's "Pleasant Valley Sunday" to the Nth degree. But my dad and his wife seem to like it, and it sure beats going back to my hometown of Ennui, Ohio. The weather is always nice and its prxomity to San Francisco is highly appealing. So I don't mind visiting too much. I mean, look at the size of this kitchen:

Maybe everybody outside of New York has a kitchen like this, but this thing has more square footage than my whole apartment. It's amusing watching my parents try to find stuff in the cabinets.

Here's my uncle Ed, my dad's best friend Stu, and of course Pops.

My first day there we hiked up Mount Diablo, the closest thing to a mountain in the county. Contrast these pictures with those of suburban paradise: this is what they had to dismantle to build those rows of identical houses.

Hey, Tuffula trees!

My goofball nieces cliffside, doing their best to give my sister a coronary

That's a rock quarry in the center, I guess that's where driveway gravel comes from

This plant protects itself by appearing to have recently been urinated upon

The hill is covered in laurel trees, producers of the handy Bay Leaf

These creatures survive by blending in with their surroundings

The next day it was off to San Francisco on the BART. BART is like a commuter train, only cuter.

I hope I live to be old enough to be above comment when I don an illustrated-fish shirt and funny hat

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