2 columnists walk into Yogurt Park

All Growns Up

I thought I had maybe written a column, but Olivia was the person who convinced me I actually had. She helped me see that what I had written wasn’t just a scrappy collection of silly memories, but something personal and cohesive.
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The Soundtrack of My Childhood

Cutting Room Floor

I found out on the train ride home from Lake Tahoe, where I had spent the weekend. In honor of him, I listened to his music on shuffle, old and new, Highway Companion to Damn the Torpedoes, and watched golden fields of fried grass and stark black cows run past my window. “Square One” consoled me as I traced streams into orange forests. “Rebels” scored the train’s trek across a Sacramento bridge. Tom Petty was dead, and I wasn’t crying. I was remembering.
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