More John Moreland please

Here’s how it happened.

My son and his girlfriend thought it was time the wife and I met her parents and they met us. Nothing loaded about that invitation.

So instead of meeting anywhere near where either set of parents live—because that would've been too easy on the old folks—they decided to have us schlepp out to Gladstone’s on PCH on a hot sunny Saturday morning for brunch.

By the way, note to self: the best thing about Gladstone’s must be the view because it sure isn't the clam chowder. How does a seafood restaurant screw up clam chowder? Maybe next time try to keep it down to one brick of butter. Don't get me started.

Anyway, I spent a lot of the meal braced for some kind of big announcement to be sprung on us by the cute couple but, to my relief, they decided to save that card to play at a later date.

Prior to the meeting, my son sat me down for a son-father talk, and let me know his girlfriend’s father was on the more conservative side of the political spectrum than I am, and I was advised, as was her dad, that in order to keep this first introductory meeting civil we should probably avoid discussing politics. Hard as it is for me to bite my tongue, and resist the pure joy that is embarassing my kids, I said I'd try.

Come to find out there was no need for them to worry. Everyone was on good behavior and getting along great. In fact, come to find out her dad was a very funny, interesting guy who I hit it off with from the get go. I really enjoyed talking to him and am very much looking forward to our next meal together.

That sound you hear is the kids finally letting their breath out.

At one point during the meal, he looked over at me and said, “So, I hear there’s a particular singer you’re pretty fond of.” To which I said, “Why as a matter of fact there just might be.” He then proceeded to tell me if I liked Springsteen—which he did also, so big points for that—I had to hear John Moreland. So on the drive home I fired up Spotify, and it was love at first listen.

First, as you may know I have a thing for singers with a little grit and gravel in their voice. Moreland's voice is uncannily close to Bruce’s, with just a hint of early Tom Waits and a faint bouquet of Warren Zevon.

Then, the songs. Beautiful, heartbreaking, truth-wringing, emotion-filled poetry. Deceptively simple lyrics that are pointed like a knife, and as moving as they are poignant.

Acoustic folk is not where Moreland started. He was a well-known figure on the Oklahoma punk scene—yes there is one—for a very long time. But he’s found his true sound, and it’s wonderful.

The first video here is the happiest melody I’ve heard from him, but don’t be fooled: listen to the lyrics. It's also the only performance with a band, the rest are him and his guitar.

If you’re ready for a good cry, take a look at the other videos and be prepared for a case of the feels.

And not that I needed more to seal the deal, but watch and listen to the last video, and you'll hear why John Moreland feels like home to me.

Closing time

My heart is broken. As a result of the virus and the new world order, one of my favorite restaurants in the world is closing. I first wrote this post about five years ago to the day. And if anything, I love this place even more now than I did then. And as you'll see, I loved it a lot then.

I feel terrible for the entire Walt's Wharf family—chefs, waitstaff, hosts, bartenders. There was never one minute where I didn't feel welcomed and wanted.

It's become a perfect storm for the seafood restaurant (and many others). Because of this bitch virus, the governor's stay-at-home directive and the very real uncertainty of how long they'd have to stay closed, the business simply wasn't sustainable. So after 50 years, 50 years!, they've been forced to shut their doors for good.

I can't remember all the lunch meetings, family dinners and special occasions that were celebrated there. But I'll never forget the meals and the hospitality. I just wish I'd know the last meal I had there was going to be the last meal I had there.

In my dream life, some rich benefactor comes in and saves Walt's Wharf and it just keeps on going. But dreams are just that.

As a certain gravel-voiced singer from New Jersey I'm fond of says in one of his songs, "Is a dream a lie that don't come true, or is it something worse?"

In this case, it is.

Thanks for everything Walt's Wharf. Dining out definitely won't be the same without you.

Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. Then, sometimes, you want to go where no one knows your name but you want to go there anyway.

I like to think of myself as someone who likes to mix it up every now and again. Who maintains an air of unpredictability. An edge of danger. I keep spontenaity alive.

I also like to think of myself as six-foot three, one eighty, blond and ripped. But that's not happening either.

Come to find out I'm actually a creature of habit. Today we met some friends for lunch at one of my favorite places, Walt's Wharf in Seal Beach. It's been there forever, and it's always great. At least what I always order is. Because despite a wide variety of fresh seafood, and a wine selection second to none, I have the exact same meal every time I eat there.

Cup of clam chowder with Tabasco. Small Walt's salad with a salmon filet on top. Iced tea. I wanted you to know in case you're buying.

It's a sure thing every time. The problem is I feel like I should try something else. Logic would tell me if my usual choice is so good, other items must be just as good if not better. On the heels of that, I think this meal makes me happy and what am I so worried about.

Besides, since when did I start living my life according to logic? Not a Vulcan, hello.

I'm not going to say feeling bad for having the same great meal at a nice seafood restaurant is a first world problem, but, you know, draw your own conclusions.

Here's what I'm trying to say. If you want to meet me for lunch at Walt's, and you happen to be in a hurry, don't worry. I know what I'm having.