So, I was minding my own business, cocktailing in my stupid floral shirt, when my manager asks me to go and give the upstairs bartender a break.  I pack up my money and head to NFL, the bar behind security near the United gates.  It’s a little busy, so I’m rushing around trying to remember where everything is and a guy walks up and asks for a Sam Adams. This guy looks exactly like Jerry Rice, I think to myself.  “14 or 20 ounces?” I say, trying to look like I’m not impressed by the greatest receiver of all time.  He looks at his watch.  “Better make it the 20.”
He pays, leaves a good tip, sits at the back counter and gets on his phone.  I start doing dishes while staring at him stupidly.  Two girls come up and ask for his autograph.  He obliges politely. I wish he had paid with a credit card.  I would’ve framed the slip.  No, he’s a bajillionaire.  He wouldn’t need a card.  Stop staring!  Did I just break that glass? Other patrons chime in with what they think.  We all agree, he’s smaller than one would imagine.  He asks for a cheese pizza.  I bring it to him with piles of napkins and ask if he’d like ranch or parmesian.  He laughs for some reason (possibly at Mt. Napkin) and declines.  I tell him his pizza looks like shit and I’d be happy to exchange it for another one.  He laughs again and says, “No thanks, babe, I think I’m fine.  How much is it?”  He again leaves a good tip, and I decide he’s a nice guy and proceed to finish the break and go back downstairs to turn in my bank, telling everybody who will listen that I just met Jerry Rice… or at least a guy who looks exactly like him.  Good enough for me!

If I never move back to Fresno, when I turn 36 I’ll have lived as long out of the ‘No as I did in it.  36 years old!  Almost half my lifetime… I don’t know if I’ll ever live in another city for that long.  Just makes you appreciate where you’re from and how long that environment had a chance to shape your comportment.  There’s no place in this state quite like the Central Valley (except maybe the Salinas valley, but that’s way nicer and smells like garlic), with its ridiculous heat and killer fogs, its increasing car theft and decreasing farm land, and its unique “friendly yet jaded, gangster meets prep, isolated traveller” citizens.  Except in Bakersfield.  Fuck Bakersfield.  My great-uncle can tell stories about before Friant dam was put up, the river-bottom out by Sanger used to flood and he sat on his roof and watched furniture and cows float by.  I loved taking the MG and driving out to Sanger or Kevin’s old house in the summer when, at dusk, with your windows down and that fading orange light over all the vineyards, you can really pretend you’re in southern Europe somewhere.  I get one of two reactions when I tell people where I’m from:
1) “Oh!  Fresno!” (They have no idea where it is.)
or
2) “Oh.  Fresno.”  (They’ve at least driven through it.)
So here’s to the city that people look upon with either pity or ignorance.  I think it’s good enough to miss.