Orange juice

I have lived in California most of my life by now.

Being I was in the Navy for over eight years, I moved around like some sort of Gypsy. But since I first moved here in 1961, I have considered this place home. I still feel, however, like an astronaut visiting a strange planet. At heart, I suppose, I am still this guy from Cleveland. Let me define Cleveland. Cleveland, like I explained to my kids, is everyplace between New York and Chicago. In Cleveland, you don't see forty year old cars whizzing down Pacific Coast Highway with surfboards on the roofs. Nor do you see 57 year old grandmothers with killer bodies and boob jobs in shorts and halter tops. And you don't see trees that have oranges growing on them. I can, and do, walk out of my girlfriend's house in the morning and pick three oranges from one of the trees and squeeze what has to be the freshest juice I have ever tasted. OK. I have had my morning rant. I'll get on with my morning chores. Like skimming the pool etc.