I walked past the mailman, nodded and smiled, and I asked about the weather as I handed him two outgoing notes. I realized that he’s been more accurate than the guys on TV, the radio, or even the internet. “Rain? Look at those clouds,” he was saying, “there’s not enough up there to spit.” Short amble to the creek, soaked my head in the teal water, at the foot of the secondary feeder spring, thought about some stuff, and changed up a design, in my mind.
While I was strolling along, then sweating along, I did stop off for a requisite hot dog, convenience stores being the local equivalent of pushcart food vendors. Stopped and fetched up some coffee at Jo’s, then some wandered home, mood much improved by fresh air and swim.
Still thinking on some issues, but I’ll be gone soon enough, at least a weekend around my family should change the outlook. Then again, family being what it is, maybe not.
Partly cloudy on S. Congress Ave.
Started off – I sent bubba an e-mail about the evening’s plan, “I’ll have on shorts & cowboy boots.” I know when he fetched the e-mail, he called me back **immediately** to make sure I wasn’t serious. I was supposed to look at some office (studio) space for rent. That lead to an extra half-hour at Jo’s, nursing a free drink. A woman passed by with a tiny but very significant tat, the letters “TCB” around a lightening bolt. After a round of phone tag, I had to postpone real estate shopping to make a meeting with a valued client, at Magnolia.
The welcome I got was reminiscent of the return of the prodigal son. My favorite little tattooed Sag friend popped in, grabbed her paycheck, and said “hello.” First a Scorpio, then another Sag waited on us. Hours later, I was rolling down the hill, full of beans and a cornmeal pancake.
I stopped a toy store looking for a suitable gift for my sister for the coming weekend. Think I got it; I’m not sure but it might be the most appropriate gift. Rolled back a little further down the hill to Guero’s where I waited for Bubba, watching the world go by and realizing that I’d spent most of the day sitting on patios located along South Congress Avenue.
Bubba called, at his behest, I ordered him up a the most heinous sounding margarita concoction I’ve heard of, the drink arrived, he arrived, everything was good. Didn’t take him long to get wound up in the summer heat.
“Kevin Fowler: putting the “foul” back in country music!”
I heard that.
“Kramer, look, what we’ll do is dye you hair red, you can do card readings here, you’ll be called Tarrot Top…”
The clincher for the evening on the patio was supposed to be a cigar. I handed Bubba one, I had one, and mine was a brand I haven’t enjoyed in years, a new label, so to speak. It knocked me on my butt. Strong cigar. Good one, and it got better as the evening wore on, but it also killed my final plans, wherein I was hoping to stop by and listen to music. Glad I didn’t wear cowboy boots with my shorts.
