Part One. Victory Blvd 
(hint: read between the lines) 

It was hot, the dog-days-of-summer-in-the-Valley kind of hot. These two lovebirds were eager to find a peaceful shade at any nearest tree, a tree this side of a place the she lovebird had never been, but had always wanted to "experience." Thanks to the internet, she quickly found a perfectly shady place! 

"Where's Victory Blvd?", she asked while thinking she might already know, because everyone kinda knows where Victory is. Of course, he was all, "A few blocks up from Vanowen. Duh." And she's like, "Where's Vanowen?" And he's like, "Ah Fuck it! We're getting out of the Valley." She was all smiles. 

Victory! 

And they lived happily ever after.

(For a friend) 

Every year my distant memory reminds me that I should wear the summer like a wedding dress, made of blue-colored strings played in variations of C Major. And so by July I collect the summer sun in a basket full of strings, and let summer happen. And you should too, despite a desire of being held captive by yesterdays spring, and being pulled by autumn into your tomorrow. A memory needs space to grow, so that you can be reminded to wear your today, to listen to the symphony it drapes over and under your skin. Let the summer chords settle in your pores. Let the settling happen, while you wear this celebration, of you.