Spiritual transport

You've lived in Sebastopol for a long time when you receive a text from someone in an ambulance, and you believe you read they are "in an abundance..."  I was thinking, an abundance of what?

A comment on Sebastoblog's sister column (about consciousness):
Don't forget my personal favorite "Conscious Roommate Wanted."  I can never decide whether that sets the bar too high, or too low!

In Whole Foods:  "We can't bring her pop tarts made with acai berries.  She's never going to go for that!"

Facebook status updates: 
"You know how you know you live in Sebastopol?  Wherever you go it smells like pot and patchouli oil."
"Chillin' on my bench downtown watchin' this old hippie try to light his joint with a magnifying glass.  Only in Sebastopol..."
(Apparently he was successful.)

A text to a local after her brother-in-law visited:  "Land of the hipsters, wine tasters and last stand of the old school hippies."

A friend, having tried to do a voice group text, glanced down frustrated at the mangled names of her co-workers.  "Goddamn Sebastopol and all of these hippie names!"

My co-worker (decidedly un-west county) informed everyone he had reached "a new low" by driving through Sebastopol in a Prius.

"I cannot do math, I just got out of yoga."
"I can't really do math any time."
"I'm fine with math, except right after yoga.  I also can't handle listening to NPR."

I was chatting with a woman while waiting outside a class for my niece.  The conversation turned to local preschools and kindergarten.  She noted at one point, "It's like it becomes a political statement. 'We are Waldorf.  We are not Waldorf.'  Do we really have to figure all that out by the age of three?!"


License plates:
INSPYR U
DUK DWN
RD HAWK
AGL WINGS






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