Jessica Grabert expounds on the virtues of California and Pet Sounds:

There are palm trees in California in March. There are palm trees and fit bodies where there is snow and shit in Indiana. There are meth labs polluting the atmosphere and news stories played from NPR stations in the snow-covered sheen of the Midwest.

But in the west, there are convertibles, top down, cranking music that I’ve never heard before. This seemingly makes me a guru of all things nonsensical, perfectly sensible because abnormalities are perfect. California, land of anti-trends, wasteland of green economies, vegans, and vintage clothes. Play me some Leonard Cohen covers and I’ll be splendid, dammit. But the weather is warm; the top is still down and I can ignore the people for a little while.

The weather is warm and the Beach Boys are necessary. Pet Sounds is all allergies; Brian Wilson is crooning. I want him to love me. I want him to leave me. I want the sun to shine and the trees to cast shadows. If there is a God, I want him to reveal himself among the buds of new leaves.