Marikar’s piece is about L.A. florist Maurice Harris, whose realist takes on life and the flower business made me smile. This one, for example: “Flowers are gross. They stink. It’s a lot of hauling shit around. It’s a lot of logistics. Like, twenty per cent of it is pretty; the rest is just annoying.” And this: We’re in a time when people think that a double tap, a share, and a visit solves the problem, when, No. It’s still pretty systemic.”
Paumgarten’s piece is the damnedest bit of found surrealism I’ve read in quite some time. It’s not easy to summarize. It comprehends the Grateful Dead, the Rainforest Action Network, weight-lifting, Gold’s Gym, “a circus camp among the California redwoods,” reel-to-reel tapes, the Allman Brothers, Fillmore East, Jimmy Carter, Johnny Cash, a psychedelic dance hall called the Carousel Ballroom, Bob Dylan, Folsom Prison, Jimi Hendrix, and people named Hawk, Bear, Starfinder, and Redbird. You’ll have to read it to appreciate how it all ingeniously coheres. Paumgarten is a master Talk writer. “Bear Cash” is one of his best.
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