I can’t wait to get home and water the plants. Got to the airport at 7:30 this morning and I’ll be in SF at 9 tonite. That’s too much airport. I’ll be hard pressed to keep out of the stall in men’s room tapping my feet like a senator. Something about airports make me horny. Lot’s of pretty ladies dressed nice and other gals in uniforms…nothing to do but sit and watch how those hips make the skirt move. High heels and open toes. They ought to sell saltpeter at the magazine kiosk.
But enough about my inner turmoil. It’s boring you. Let’s talk about this last week. I got a handful of change and one nickel was the color of the Mississippi – aka old muddy.
“You got a Katrina coin!” Lesley yelled, like I won something from the top row at a fair booth.
“The coin star machines all had signs on them after the flood, ‘No Katrina Money’. It messed them up.”
We never got me to a drive through daqiuri bar, where they give you an alcoholic drink in a styrofoam cup with a lid. If you don’t put the straw in then you don’t have an open container. The local treat is a snowball – shaved ice with flavored syrup poured over. It’s an institution down here, like roadside ice cream stands up north.
“I’m going to heaven” was the straightforward claim on the bumpersticker Mitch’s neighbor stuck on his door.
Lesley and her friends were in the photobooth at the bar the nite of the election, drunk, laughing and yelling. They came out to a silent bar trying to listen to a historic acceptance speech. I wonder who else out there was acting a fool that moment? Who was lighting their fart with a match when man first landed on the moon? Why were you stealing tomatoes from your neighbors garden when Kennedy was shot?