Some of the things I say are true, some are not, but it all happened. – Richard Pryor
Supposed to be in Vegas for an important large family affair but no way to get there. We do not plane, not yet anyway. But the dogs already had reservations at Four Paws, so… we drove to a smaller affair.
Got up at five in the a.m. Can’t see to drive in the dark but if I know the road, I should be good.
Real old man in a new world experience. I’m on I75 headed north, just about to pass Gainesville, when I spy a reader board with electronic green glowing letters offering an alert: VEHICLE FIRE UP AHEAD. ALL LANES BLOCKED AFTER EXIT 392.
I am a neo-Luddite who doesn’t have much respect for the DeSantistan government. Can I believe this warning from FDOT?
You are doing 78 mph, just begun a long journey and nobody in front of you even slowing down.
The mind roils. What to do? The little red devil said, be a man, keep going, run the blockade.
The little blue angel spoke in a soothing quiet voice, remember Dog, you can read sign.
Took Exit 392.
No idea where I am going, so I drive through beautiful developments until I reach a major thoroughfare and hang a left, right down the middle of the business district until I found another big left and eventually exited back onto a deserted interstate.
At the clean sight of three clear lanes of open tarmac, actually got a stiffy.
Forced to sit through Mrs. Casey’s basic geometry three (3) times, obviously I learned something about ninety-degree angles. She gave me a circled red 65 and signed my senior yearbook. Glad to be rid of me.
Told Legendary Coach Roy Benson I was passing by and he said stop in. “We’re just past the Ritz-Carlton.”
My wife is still talking about his homemade soup. And his feeding the Amelia Island lizards by hand. Shout out to Miss Betty. Real good people.
A divided four-lane Interstate highway with poor surfacing and egregiously stupid signage cries tomes about the downhill slide the bottom ninety-nine percent of Americans are in.
“The World’s Top Country,” I don’t think so.
Back home a Trump 2024 flag flies a two-minute walk away.
Back home, if they are flying a Stars & Stripes, they can’t wait to vote for the Orange Jesus again.
My stepdaughter flies a flag in Olde Providence, Charlotte, North Carolina. Proud democrat. Two other homes – one across from the other – fly the USA banner. Walked all over the place, you know I did, and no flags. Think leafy shady innercity burb. Venture out morning and evening, you’ll see deer.
Before I could get off the front porch one morning, a five-point buck hurriedly led a spotted fawn the size of a Goldendoodle across the lawn.
Nobody flies a Biden flag.
Nowhere.
Another difference here from DeSantistan – dog shit signage.
In civil society, like this neighborhood in Charlotte, lawn admonitions say something like SCOOP THE POOP, PLEASE.
Back home, yard signs read more like YOUR DOG CAN HOLD IT OR I’LL SHOOT YOU DEAD.
Apparently, they really are afraid of everything.
When word reached me that FaceBook Fav Steve Starr had broken the two-hundred pound barrier, in the healthier direction, I had to see this for myself.
Steve picked me up way too early after my amazing vehicularism the day before. All stove up but game.
We got to the Little Sugar Creek Greenway – sounds like a good place to dump bodies – an hour before the 5K Park Run.
An hour. The Old Man took a seat at his usual spot, near the water fountain, across from the woman’s restroom.
Told Stone Cold Steve I walk five kilometers every morning, so what the hell.
Took us fifty-five minutes and I had to pull myself back a couple of times.
Been a while since I haven’t had to stop for bush smelling.
At Mac’s Speed Shop the next Monday, we were about stunned by the beautiful smile and energy of a young waitress and I might have sighed audibly at her approach. Might’ve sighed again when she instantly announced she was off work. And we would never see her again.
Caroline was nice enough to linger and we let her cash us out.
SMOKED CHICKEN QUESADILLA $11 APPLEWOOD-SMOKED BACON, SHREDDED JACK & CHEDDAR, CHIPOTLE RANCH. WITH SALSA & SOUR CREAM (ADD GUACAMOLE $2)
You know what they say, let’s guac and roll. And a strong IPA, Hazy something.
About on the cusp of “Too Lean.” A condition which bothers my wife on a couple of levels.
Covid will definitely get rid of some of those extra pounds. I believe Coach Roy agrees.
Told the daughter and the boys, straight out, ‘we only come to look at you people.’
You’ve felt that. When you can look at someone you love and it just makes you feel better.
The young men grow so fast and we see them so rarely. Daughter stays the same size.
Boys all have hairdos like the Shaggy Dog and grandpa has a tight fade.
Like 1968. Somehow reversed.
You can almost hear the conversation at school.
‘Sup. Grandparents in town, what they like?
Well, when I left the house, Grandpa was smoking weed on the front porch while Nana styled his hair with silver pomade.
Cool.
Away from my recliner and my remote, I like to catch up on magazine back issues. Still a tad piqued Jeff Bridges stole my Old Man thing, but good for him. Good, too, for Thomas Perry who did the work and wrote the book.
In her late June Time review of the FX-miniseries “The Old Man”, Judy Berman opened with these words, which I noted.
Live long enough and circumstances will force you to take stock of the big decisions you made, did they turn out how you expected? What did you sacrifice? Whom did you hurt, and was the pain you inflicted on others, or the pain you caused yourself, worth it?
Well, hell, lady….
Six days since I last heard my own dog bark.
We go to get our canine companions. Lily, of course, was the perfect demure miss, sitting in the shade serenely.
Ragnar, different story.
Once assured she was saying it nicely, he’s something of a monster who’s constantly in everybody else’s business.
And he’s not even tired.
He is also always welcome back at Four Paws.
The ladies love a bad boy.
Now asleep at my feet.
