There’s just something perfectly idyllic about wandering along Barton Springs Road, an Earl Campbell hotlink on a bun, in one hand. A large cup of ice, brown fizzy water [diet coke> in the other hand, and my shirt thrown across my shoulder.
It’s a tough balancing act, but I was doing okay until the breeze kicked up a notch. Then it was little harder than I liked. Mustard dribbled onto the shirt. Didn’t show, though, I mean, it’s a typical Kramer shirt. Mustard just looks like the pattern.
It’s really hard to be suave and debonair, in the midst of an astrological discussion about Saturn in the final degrees of Gemini, talking to a Capricorn, at Chuy’s, when the phone rings.
“Hi Mom.”
I duck some calls, but never miss Ma Wetzel calls. It’s just “not done.”
