One year ago today: March 17, 2018, the study of costs.
Five years ago today: March 17, 2014, never go to Hampton.
Nine years ago today: March 17, 2010, 29/40ths.
Random years ago today: March 17, 2007, on satellite radio.
Another Sunday at what I may soon be calling the Chateau d’Hermitage. Figure it out, the clientele gets home-cooked meals that have turned the kitchen into a perpetual rice factory. The dogs ride to nearby parks on memory foam, get cleaned up afterward, and sleep on flannel blankets. The cats eat every meal with gravy and even the turtle gets back rubs with coconut oil. Shown here, his Majesty is getting the tear stains daubed from his eyes with a heated moist towelette. When I think about it, the turtle is actually the easiest customer. Because he always wants the same thing, the wax. Hardee-har, you should have seen that one coming.
Oh, it goes further than that. The pamperlings also get their backyard romps, and let me tell you a little about meal times. They get their ration of pellets, but to make sure they don’t lack variety, some of the additives include sardines, turkey sausage, rice, pumpkin, Parmesan cheese, and occasional beef gravy. We all should have it so good. Their favorite yard activity isn’t fetch or chase, but basking in the sunshine watching me rake leaves. In places, the leaves are nearly a foot deep.
Across the power lines to the east, this skanky looking lady has started to appear when I walk the dogs that way. Today she showed up with an untethered pit bull. It instantly attacked Sparky, but I have no fear of dogs and was able to knock the wind out of it with a rapid series of bulk kicks to the ribs. Of course, the lady panics. Not my problem, the law says the dog has to be on a leash. I checked Sparky but other than some dog slobber, he’s fine. She’s like, duh, and I’m thinking hey, check your own dog. You brought him into this.
Paris by drone.
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Last evening, I went out. Here’s the report, take it at face value. I decided to stop in at Santa’s. The crowd is 30-40, a far livelier bunch than anything around here. The pub is 11 miles away, but I programmed the route by freeway except the last mile. There was a $5 cover charge and they checked my ID. It was the same Karaoke guy as in 2016 when I rocked the place on my birthday. Except now he also runs the bar. And the place makes a fortune. They probably took in $2500 at the door, there is standing room only inside from 8:00PM onwards. Mind you, I’ve only been there on weekends.s
Here goes. One of my pairs of jeans just got promoted to formal wear. This is what happened, you decide how to unpack it. Earlier, my regular jeans were still too damp out of the dryer. I buy work jeans at the thrift and had a dry pair, which I slipped on. I’m probably more tuned than usual about how women look at me, and I got several oglers while on stage. But also walking to and from the stage. I wrote it off since they were not good-lookers and they’d been drinking. There’s more.
I left early enough to stop in at Shooters, which had a big band on stage. And a few of their groupies looked at me the same. I’m not handsome enough turn heads, so this morning, I put on the same outfit in front of the upstairs full length mirror. What do you know, those work jeans really fit in the right places. I read the tag and looked at the seams, nothing special about them at all. Except they fit so nice. Ah, yep, these get moved to the top drawer.
I had a great time at Santa’s. A lot of the crowd was married couples. I may have been the only professional performer there, and this was not lost to the staff. This guy who looked like a cross between a grizzly bear and ZZ Top kept serving me beers at Happy Hours prices. After a bit, we got to talking about the crowd and Nashville. Turns out he is the Santa that owns the place. Yeah, I saw it then, you know the big white beard. I had been told it was Santa’s because they left up the Xmas lights, but this guy did actually look like St. Nick. Only lots older.
ADDENDUM
There was a documentary on Brexit concerning something I was unaware of. The border between Ireland and Northern Ireland would become an international boundary. Not that I ever understood the hatred over there for border crossings, but they were a favorite target for both sides. So much so they were removed. Brexit brings them back. I wonder, will they be regarded the same? The old crossings symbolized division, which the new crossings have little to do with.
The answer, of course, is to do what nobody wants to admit will work. Close the border to anyone who obviously doesn’t look like they belong there. But the English don’t have the balls to do it. We’ve got the same problem here with liberals. Those people don’t want a solution. They want the problem to remain on-going and demand the right to dictate what others should think and feel.
They are currently making a big deal about some child who needs medicine from Europe or get seizures. More to the point, the big deal is over her mother worried about the expense. Yep, let’s jeopardize the entire economy because some fat lady has defective offspring. What she needs is a good opportunity to show her parenting skills are based on self-reliance, as Nature intended.
