Tuesday April 3
I awake about 7 a.m., and again remove the dry kitty food. This motel serves a hot breakfast, so after a shower and shave, I head off to the lobby for a heapin' helpin' of egg rounds (staple of the motel "free breakfast"), sausage rounds, and biscuit rounds. All of which are perfectly proportioned so as to create a breakfast sandwich of such uniform dimension that they could be stacked in a Pringles can.
I load up the car, crating the kitties last and putting them in their positions -- Abby in back of me and to my right, and Phoebe next to me in the right front passenger seat. Today is a long drive -- about 540 miles -- and I am anxious to tear up the road and get home.
We are a curious and paradoxical breed -- most of us anyway -- in that we crave variety and new experiences, but at the same time eventually tire of it and seek to return to the comfort and predictability of familiar surroundings. Rare is the person who craves the open road all the time. I think of Marie Colvin -- the eyepatch reporter --- who was killed this past February in Syria while on assignment... a state which was more or less constant, I guess. "Home" was a foreign concept to her, and I guess it's good that there are jobs for people like that.
But I would say most of us -- and certainly me -- fall into that former category. We are at times bored with what we perceive as the monotony of our everyday routines, and so we seek to "get away from it all." But then after a while, we miss our friends, our family, our favorite haunts. And for me, having spent two extended stays in Florida, I crave the familiar yet essential amenities that this state cannot provide. I need the rhythms of the seasons. I certainly enjoyed Florida, but am looking forward to a distinct Spring, Summer, and Fall "back home." They say there are "seasons" in Florida, too, but from what I can tell of people's descriptions, they are more subtle, punctuated only by the damnable "hurricane season." I crave the crisp, cool, dry air of a Spring morning and a Fall afternoon, of which there is none in Florida. And I am looking forward to returning to the "contour" of Wisconsin, for lack of a better word. There is no contour in Florida; only flat. A day trip in Wisconsin to Sauk City or Monroe or Spring Green is filled with wondrous sights ... hills, valleys, rock formations, and all manner of geographic eye candy. "Getting there" in Wisconsin is truly half the fun. A day trip in Florida is an exercise in containing boredom. The sawgrass, cypress trees, and cattails are "exotic" for about the first five minutes when you're traveling along along "Alligator Alley" (Interstate 75) from Naples to Miami through the Everglades. After that, it's "Oh my God, when am I going to get there?"
Ah, but there is the warmth, the sunshine, the bike rides in shorts and T-Shirts, the farmers' markets in February with fresh strawberries that explode in your mouth. And have I mention the ocean?
And so dear readers, you see the paradox of which I contemplate during my final drive home, punctuated by the occasional wail of a kitty.
I arrive home by about 7:30 p.m, with twilight descending. I exit the Prius, and I am suddenly hit by the sensation that I never left. The screeching of a power tool emanates from the garage of "Chuck," my neighbor to the one side of me, indicating he is still grinding away on his worthless '49 Ford pickup, a project he has been working on for the past five years, and which apparently has no end. Meanwhile, the familiar smell of cigarette smoke wafts from the rear stoop of the house to my other side, where Sue, my chain-smoking neighbor, for as long as I can remember, has been forced to appease her cravings for nicotine outside the house. This, in spite of the fact, that her husband toils 14 hours a day in a cheese-smoking factory and whose furniture and bedding must surely reek of sweat, smoked Gouda, and despair..
Yes, most certainly I left. And now I am home, and counting my blessings.
Bruce
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Second Day on the Road
Monday April 2
I awake about 6:30, and the first thing I do is remove the dry kitty food in an attempt to "fast" Phoebe so she doesn't throw up the contents of her stomach while on the road. I shower and shave. There is no breakfast here, other than coffee, so I head over to a nearby Cracker Barrel. I know this is unimaginative and that there are plenty of Cracker Barrels back home. But I love their pancakes (which are served with real maple syrup) and their turkey sausage (which is not as greasy as pork sausage). I return to the room, pack up the kitties and their gear, and head out on the road again.
I am bound today for Clarksville, TN, where I stopped the first night on my way to Florida four months ago. I have reservations at the same Econo-Lodge. The first hurdle is getting through Atlanta, and I make it fine with no major delays. I must say that Gretchen (my GPS unit) is doing a good job on the way back keeping me on the Interstate and off the state highways.
My approximately 475 miles pass without incident. Just the usual pee and gas stops. Fortunately, nothing comes out of either end of Phoebe, and both kitties are relatively quiet today and settle down for big long naps.
I arrive in Clarksville about 4:30, and after setting up the kitty food and litter, the next thing I do is crank the AC and take a nap. The AC at the Motel 6 the night before was on some kind of "governor" that limited the amount by which you chill down the room. Bastards. So it was nice to bring the room down to "meat locker" temperature, get under the covers, and take a proper nap. I awake about 6:30 and am hungry, having nibbled during the day only on the last of the bargain bison jerky from Dixie Grocery Liquidators, along with some trail mix. Without taking a drive anywhere (which I really don't want to do), my choices within walking distance are an Arby's, a "Captain D's" (which is a fast-seafood chain of restaurants similar to Long John Silvers) or a McDonalds. I opt for Arby's because I have been wanting to try one of their Reuben sandwiches which they have been advertising on TV.
I decide to order the "Super Reuben" in which they put a layer of shaved turkey (or turkey-like substance) on top of the corned Arby meat, so you get kind of a "double portion" of meat. I order this with a small drink, and my bill comes to the better part of $9, of which $7 represents the sandwich. I didn't really look a the menu price, because I simply wanted to try the sandwich.
And while it was tasty enough -- salty in that fast-food, impossible-to-distinguish-among-individual-ingredients kind of way -- I am thinking that seven bucks for a sandwich is really pushing the limits of a fast-food establishment. I am thinking that for seven bucks, I should have a waiter or waitress bringing me the sandwich, rather than carrying it myself on a plastic tray from a counter.
Or is it me? Am I once again showing signs of getting old and/or being out of touch with what shit costs? I just think of Arby's as the place you used to go and get five roast beef sandwiches for five bucks. In my poorer days, I could take those sandwiches home, put them in the fridge, and stretch those sandwiches out to five meals, and life was good. That was Arby's proper place in the universe. A source of cheap protein. Protein of unknown origins, granted, but protein none the less, and something other than hamburger, though exactly WHAT remains a mystery to this day.
Since when did their corporate execs get delusions of grandeur and imagine themselves a "restaurant" and imagine that your average Arby's customer would pony up seven bucks for a single sandwich? Even McDonald's has enough sense to limit the price of their most expensive sandwich -- a third-pound "Angus Burger" -- to $3.99.
Oh well, I had the sandwich. It was good and filling. But I was taken aback by the hubris of it all.
Back to the Econo-Lodge, where Phoebe seems to be in good humor this evening. I pass the time reading, surfing the Internet, and watching "Pawn Stars" on the History Channel.
I am looking forward to making it home tomorrow. The thrill of the open road is losing its charm --- especially traveling with two kitties.
I hit the sack about 10:30.
Bruce
I awake about 6:30, and the first thing I do is remove the dry kitty food in an attempt to "fast" Phoebe so she doesn't throw up the contents of her stomach while on the road. I shower and shave. There is no breakfast here, other than coffee, so I head over to a nearby Cracker Barrel. I know this is unimaginative and that there are plenty of Cracker Barrels back home. But I love their pancakes (which are served with real maple syrup) and their turkey sausage (which is not as greasy as pork sausage). I return to the room, pack up the kitties and their gear, and head out on the road again.
I am bound today for Clarksville, TN, where I stopped the first night on my way to Florida four months ago. I have reservations at the same Econo-Lodge. The first hurdle is getting through Atlanta, and I make it fine with no major delays. I must say that Gretchen (my GPS unit) is doing a good job on the way back keeping me on the Interstate and off the state highways.
My approximately 475 miles pass without incident. Just the usual pee and gas stops. Fortunately, nothing comes out of either end of Phoebe, and both kitties are relatively quiet today and settle down for big long naps.
I arrive in Clarksville about 4:30, and after setting up the kitty food and litter, the next thing I do is crank the AC and take a nap. The AC at the Motel 6 the night before was on some kind of "governor" that limited the amount by which you chill down the room. Bastards. So it was nice to bring the room down to "meat locker" temperature, get under the covers, and take a proper nap. I awake about 6:30 and am hungry, having nibbled during the day only on the last of the bargain bison jerky from Dixie Grocery Liquidators, along with some trail mix. Without taking a drive anywhere (which I really don't want to do), my choices within walking distance are an Arby's, a "Captain D's" (which is a fast-seafood chain of restaurants similar to Long John Silvers) or a McDonalds. I opt for Arby's because I have been wanting to try one of their Reuben sandwiches which they have been advertising on TV.
I decide to order the "Super Reuben" in which they put a layer of shaved turkey (or turkey-like substance) on top of the corned Arby meat, so you get kind of a "double portion" of meat. I order this with a small drink, and my bill comes to the better part of $9, of which $7 represents the sandwich. I didn't really look a the menu price, because I simply wanted to try the sandwich.
And while it was tasty enough -- salty in that fast-food, impossible-to-distinguish-among-individual-ingredients kind of way -- I am thinking that seven bucks for a sandwich is really pushing the limits of a fast-food establishment. I am thinking that for seven bucks, I should have a waiter or waitress bringing me the sandwich, rather than carrying it myself on a plastic tray from a counter.
Or is it me? Am I once again showing signs of getting old and/or being out of touch with what shit costs? I just think of Arby's as the place you used to go and get five roast beef sandwiches for five bucks. In my poorer days, I could take those sandwiches home, put them in the fridge, and stretch those sandwiches out to five meals, and life was good. That was Arby's proper place in the universe. A source of cheap protein. Protein of unknown origins, granted, but protein none the less, and something other than hamburger, though exactly WHAT remains a mystery to this day.
Since when did their corporate execs get delusions of grandeur and imagine themselves a "restaurant" and imagine that your average Arby's customer would pony up seven bucks for a single sandwich? Even McDonald's has enough sense to limit the price of their most expensive sandwich -- a third-pound "Angus Burger" -- to $3.99.
Oh well, I had the sandwich. It was good and filling. But I was taken aback by the hubris of it all.
Back to the Econo-Lodge, where Phoebe seems to be in good humor this evening. I pass the time reading, surfing the Internet, and watching "Pawn Stars" on the History Channel.
I am looking forward to making it home tomorrow. The thrill of the open road is losing its charm --- especially traveling with two kitties.
I hit the sack about 10:30.
Bruce
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
First Day on the Road
Sunday April 1
The alarm woke me at 5 a.m. I put the bedding in the washing machine, cooked and ate some breakfast, and finished loading the car. By the time Phoebe and Abby were ready to load, the bedding went into the dryer. I loaded the kitties, put the door key under the mat, and bid farewell to 8913 Somerset Boulevard.
To pass the time, I listen to "How to Build a House," a book on CD, the bane of many a reader, but welcome relief to those who spend many a long hour on the road. The book, though not what I expected, was nevertheless interesting.
The kitties made it OK, though Phoebe pitched a fit for about the first hour, and both barfed and pooped in her travel case. So I had to pull off the Interstate to a gas station, removing the offending effluents, and wash the fleece liner as best I could in the men's room and dry it as best as possible using the wall-mounted hand dryer.
But after that, she settled down and both kitties slept for most of the remainder of the trip. Strange as it may sound, I think the sound of the female voice narrating the book on CD soothed them. The destination today is Macon, Georgia. That's a little south of Atlanta by about 75 miles, but you have to remember I started out further south in Ft. Myers as opposed to starting out from Orlando. Plus, my watch trading buddy, Dan (from Atlanta), was unable to meet with me on my way, so there was little point in trying to make it to Atlanta.
As is was, I logged about 540 miles, and the trip went without incident, stopping only to pee and to fill once with gas. I nibbled on trail mix and buffalo jerky, and had a couple of bottles of water with me, so I didn't have to stop for lunch.
I got into Macon about 5:30, and pulled into my Motel 6 where I had a reservation. It is a bare-bones travel lodge style of motel, but you don’t get much for $39.95 these days! At least they didn’t charge extra for the two kitties. I had “breakfast for dinner” at a nearby Waffle House. For some reason, that sounded good to me. I had the waffle special, which is a festival of carbs with grits, toast, and the waffle. For protein, you get two eggs and choice of pork product, of which I had sausage.
Phoebe spent the first portion of the evening hissing in the motel room, asserting her Alpha-ness over Abby, who could have cared less. I phoned Dawn to let her know I made it OK. I did a little emailing, a little Internet surfing, and watched a little TV. Hit the sack around 10:30. The cats decided to have a "kitty pajama party" for a portion of the night, leaping from bed to bed with apparently great joy. Also, the damned air conditoner apparently had some type of "governor" on it, allowing the room only to be cooled to about 75 degrees, which is warm for me and prompted me to lay on the bed sans sheet or cover. Despite all this, I manage a few good hours of sleep. Driving tends to do that for me.
Bruce
The alarm woke me at 5 a.m. I put the bedding in the washing machine, cooked and ate some breakfast, and finished loading the car. By the time Phoebe and Abby were ready to load, the bedding went into the dryer. I loaded the kitties, put the door key under the mat, and bid farewell to 8913 Somerset Boulevard.
To pass the time, I listen to "How to Build a House," a book on CD, the bane of many a reader, but welcome relief to those who spend many a long hour on the road. The book, though not what I expected, was nevertheless interesting.
The kitties made it OK, though Phoebe pitched a fit for about the first hour, and both barfed and pooped in her travel case. So I had to pull off the Interstate to a gas station, removing the offending effluents, and wash the fleece liner as best I could in the men's room and dry it as best as possible using the wall-mounted hand dryer.
But after that, she settled down and both kitties slept for most of the remainder of the trip. Strange as it may sound, I think the sound of the female voice narrating the book on CD soothed them. The destination today is Macon, Georgia. That's a little south of Atlanta by about 75 miles, but you have to remember I started out further south in Ft. Myers as opposed to starting out from Orlando. Plus, my watch trading buddy, Dan (from Atlanta), was unable to meet with me on my way, so there was little point in trying to make it to Atlanta.
As is was, I logged about 540 miles, and the trip went without incident, stopping only to pee and to fill once with gas. I nibbled on trail mix and buffalo jerky, and had a couple of bottles of water with me, so I didn't have to stop for lunch.
I got into Macon about 5:30, and pulled into my Motel 6 where I had a reservation. It is a bare-bones travel lodge style of motel, but you don’t get much for $39.95 these days! At least they didn’t charge extra for the two kitties. I had “breakfast for dinner” at a nearby Waffle House. For some reason, that sounded good to me. I had the waffle special, which is a festival of carbs with grits, toast, and the waffle. For protein, you get two eggs and choice of pork product, of which I had sausage.
Phoebe spent the first portion of the evening hissing in the motel room, asserting her Alpha-ness over Abby, who could have cared less. I phoned Dawn to let her know I made it OK. I did a little emailing, a little Internet surfing, and watched a little TV. Hit the sack around 10:30. The cats decided to have a "kitty pajama party" for a portion of the night, leaping from bed to bed with apparently great joy. Also, the damned air conditoner apparently had some type of "governor" on it, allowing the room only to be cooled to about 75 degrees, which is warm for me and prompted me to lay on the bed sans sheet or cover. Despite all this, I manage a few good hours of sleep. Driving tends to do that for me.
Bruce
Final Day in Paradise
Saturday March 31
I awake, have some breakfast, and immediately clean the rest of the condo, for Heather is coming over at 10 a.m. to do the walkthrough. The vacuuming is done (as best I can), so I concentrate on the two crappers, the kitchen, and washing the hard floors with the "Swifter," which as I've mentioned before I think is a pretty worthless device, or at the very least poorly designed (unless I'm using it wrong).
Heather arrives about 10:15, and we talk for a while about possible plans for next winter. She urges me to contact her if I believe I will be returning to Ft. Myers. At the very least, she can tell me areas that are "good" and areas to avoid. She does her walk-thru and says she is satisfied, but something tells me the cat hair is an issue (and it turns out that I do pay a cleaning fee that is deducted from my $500 security deposit). I thank Heather for the extra day, and tell her I hope to be on the road by 7 a.m. tomorrow (Sunday) and she says that's fine.
I don't have my bike any more, and I don't really want to drive anywhere, with today being Saturday. So I finish packing, leaving out only what I need to change clothes and eat a little breakfast tomorrow. I spend the rest of the day reading, surfing the Internet, and spending time out by the condo pool. For lunch and dinner, I try to clean up as many of the groceries as I can to minimize toting food in the two mini coolers I brought down here.
I reflect on my time down here, and I think it was time well spent. The winter back home was unseasonably mild this year, but I was still biking, swimming, walking around in shorts and T-shirts, and eating fresh strawberries while the folks back home were in long pants and jackets. I enjoyed Southwest Florida, and I think a person could certainly do worse in picking an area to spend the winter. Yes, Ft. Myers has its areas of blight, but what big city doesn't? If you want the creature comforts of a larger city, you have to take a little blight on the side.
The dating game didn't yield Ms. Right. I think the chances of finding a Florida gal who would spend at least the summers in Wisconsin is even less likely than finding a Wisconsin gal to spend winters down here. But the experience was still worthwhile. The condo here was nice. And even though I got very little use of that second bedroom, I think it's good to have the extra space, especially if traveling with the kitties (to have a place to put the litter boxes).
Evening comes, and I'm pretty much all set to go. I set the alarm for 5 a.m., the first and only time I have set my little travel alarm since I have been here.
Bruce
I awake, have some breakfast, and immediately clean the rest of the condo, for Heather is coming over at 10 a.m. to do the walkthrough. The vacuuming is done (as best I can), so I concentrate on the two crappers, the kitchen, and washing the hard floors with the "Swifter," which as I've mentioned before I think is a pretty worthless device, or at the very least poorly designed (unless I'm using it wrong).
Heather arrives about 10:15, and we talk for a while about possible plans for next winter. She urges me to contact her if I believe I will be returning to Ft. Myers. At the very least, she can tell me areas that are "good" and areas to avoid. She does her walk-thru and says she is satisfied, but something tells me the cat hair is an issue (and it turns out that I do pay a cleaning fee that is deducted from my $500 security deposit). I thank Heather for the extra day, and tell her I hope to be on the road by 7 a.m. tomorrow (Sunday) and she says that's fine.
I don't have my bike any more, and I don't really want to drive anywhere, with today being Saturday. So I finish packing, leaving out only what I need to change clothes and eat a little breakfast tomorrow. I spend the rest of the day reading, surfing the Internet, and spending time out by the condo pool. For lunch and dinner, I try to clean up as many of the groceries as I can to minimize toting food in the two mini coolers I brought down here.
I reflect on my time down here, and I think it was time well spent. The winter back home was unseasonably mild this year, but I was still biking, swimming, walking around in shorts and T-shirts, and eating fresh strawberries while the folks back home were in long pants and jackets. I enjoyed Southwest Florida, and I think a person could certainly do worse in picking an area to spend the winter. Yes, Ft. Myers has its areas of blight, but what big city doesn't? If you want the creature comforts of a larger city, you have to take a little blight on the side.
The dating game didn't yield Ms. Right. I think the chances of finding a Florida gal who would spend at least the summers in Wisconsin is even less likely than finding a Wisconsin gal to spend winters down here. But the experience was still worthwhile. The condo here was nice. And even though I got very little use of that second bedroom, I think it's good to have the extra space, especially if traveling with the kitties (to have a place to put the litter boxes).
Evening comes, and I'm pretty much all set to go. I set the alarm for 5 a.m., the first and only time I have set my little travel alarm since I have been here.
Bruce
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Bikes, Blues, and Bucky
Friday March 30
I have the rather sad task of returning my rental bike today to "Randy," the bike dealer at the Fleamasters flea market.
My vintage 1980s Murray "Westport" has been my trusted steed throughout my stay here, and has never let me down. I've missed having "gears" for a little faster transport on the more lengthy uninterrupted stretches of flat terrain. However, the simplicity and durability of a coaster bike cannot be denied. I remove the custom seat I installed on the bike, and re-install the seat that came with it. Then I drive it over to the flea market, where Randy happily returns half my money -- $50 -- and says he will have no trouble reselling it. I have no use for the basket I bought to go with the bike -- $15 -- so I throw that in for free, along with the cushion handle bar grips that I bought.
I return to the condo, and start packing a few things, although tomorrow will be the major packing day. I also start cleaning the condo in anticipation of Heather's inspection of the place tomorrow. The vacuum cleaner she has provided me sucks -- or rather DOESN'T suck very well -- and it has no upholstery attachment for the hose, so the chairs and couch and sectional and area rug do not get very clean of all the cat hair. But I do the best I can, and at least suck up all the dust/cat hair bunnies that have accumulated in the corners.
(Heather will later assess me a $59 fee for having a maid come in to clean up the cat hair, and I assume the maid had her own vacuum cleaner. So mental note to myself and warning to those relatives thinking about traveling with cats: Most landlords are going to "get you" one way or another for your cats!)
Carol and I continue a few more emails and phone calls about our final "date" for this evening. I am to meet her at approximately 9 p.m. at a placed called“Buckingham Blues Bar,” which according to her can be a very fun place to go, dance, listen to music, etc. But that can vary, she warns, depending on who’s playing, what the crowd is like, etc. When I ask if she knows who's playing this evening, she has no idea.
The bar/club is in the town/village/hamlet (whatever) of Buckingham, which is northwest of Ft. Myers and out in the sticks a bit. The owner is apparently an avid blues patron and hosts regular blues festivals in his fenced-in patio/lawn in back of the bar. I later see that this space includes a HUGE deck area with an outdoor stage, and lots of picnic tables, lawn furniture, etc., to sit, along with a fire pit for colder nights. In the very rear of the property is a pen which houses "Bucky the Buckingham Mule," which is the bar's mascot. So Carol informs me that, if I'm lucky, I'll get to meet him. (I can hardly wait!)
I head out to the bar at about 8 p.m. It is dark, so I set my GPS unit for the address, and it's a good thing. I would never have found this place without it. It's on a twisty, curvy road (perfect for the cops to pick off drunk drivers) and I've got cars on my ass who obviously are paying no heed to the 45mph speed limit.
I get to the place about 8:45 p.m., ahead of Carol, pay the $10 cover charge, stake out a table, order a beer, and watch the "band" finish setting up. I say "band" in quotes, because there are only three people. It is a guy by the name of Bobby Messano (on lead -- and only -- guitar, who apparently is the leader of this rather motley looking crew, and for whom the band is named). He will be accompanied this evening by a drummer and a bassman. All of them looked to be in their late 50s or early 60s, so they were all seasoned musicians. Bobby, in particular, looks like he's got about a million miles on him, and he's got the "no hair in front, but back hair down to this shoulders" thing going on, and he bears an uncanny resemblance to porn star Ron Jeremy.
OK, folks, I know extremely little about blues. There's B.B. King, and everybody else. That's what I know. I guess Messano is somewhat famous in the “blues circles,” but I’d never heard of him. So for a $10 cover charge -- to see what amounts to a trio -- I'm hoping they're passable and at least play some stuff that you can dance to, seeing as how Carol wants to dance.
Carol shows up. She is very tastefully dressed, by the way, in black pants and black blouse with a deep V-neck showing some nice cleavage. So still a little daring, perhaps, but no catwoman costume, thankfully.
She is taken aback that there is $10 cover charge, saying in all the times she has been here, there has never been a cover. So I pay her cover charge as an act of chivalry and tell her not to worry about it ... and that this Messano guy is supposed to be pretty good. She tells me she's never heard of them either. I order up a Bud for Carol, and a fresh one for myself.
They hit their opening number, and they are so earsplittingly loud that Carol covers her ears, and in a short time goes outside and retrieves some earplugs from her car. (OK, show of hands ... anyone out there customarily travel with earplugs in their car? .... Anyone? ... Bueller? ... No, didn't think so. I ask Carol about this, and she says that sometimes she works security patrol at rock concerts located in venues within the Edison College camputs. So there you go.
While Bobby and his two others were very talented, musically, is was not dance music. They were doing a lot riffing, tempo changes, etc. A lot of his songs had long introductions where he’d do some strumming/picking, while talking about where he was and what he was doing when he first heard a particular song. He was dropping a lot of big names, but it was hard to tell if he actually PLAYED with any of these people, or merely attended one of their concerts! What they lacked in depth (due to only being a three piece) they made up in volume. They were WAY over amplified, in my opinion, for a bar of that size.
(I later Google the guy and found out he wrote a tune called "That's Why I Don't Sing the Blues" which I guess was a semi-final contender in a recent Grammy award draft pick. It never made it as a nomination, but apparently you can put some PR spin on just being considered, and this is what Bobby has done. But working blues bars and state/county fairs is about as far as you get when the Grammy committee merely "considers" your song, but you don't make it to a nomination, let alone winning an actual award.)
Anyway, the band takes a break, and we both need some fresh air and some relief from the pounding music, so we go outside to the patio/lawn area to see if we can find Bucky. I stop at the my car and pick up the carrots I have brought. There's no one at the patio tonight, and the flood lights are turned off. Guided by my micro LED keychain flashlight, we make our way back to the paddock, through the latched gate, and start calling for Bucky. And I'll be damned if he doesn't saunter up to the fence, and we proceed to feed him carrots.
It is said the Bucky has a taste for beer, and on "festival nights" back in the patio, people get a big kick out of getting the mule drunk.When Bucky hears a band tuning up out on the patio, he even starts braying in anticipation of his beer. I am not sure of the legality/cruelty aspect of this, but apparently it’s a local institution, and it is said that bets are taken as to when Bucky will keel over from inebriation. I think he enjoyed the carrots just as much.
There was also a nice double-seat swing back there, and Carol and I sat and talked for a while, about nothing in particular, but it was a break from the bar and a chance to get some fresh air (no smoking the bar, by the way, which was kind of surreal watching people out in the parking lot having their smokes.) You got your hand stamped upon entrance, so you could come and go as you pleased, and even take your drinks outside into the parking lot and/or the deck in back.
The "crowd," if you can call it that, was real thin, perhaps about 20-25 people. So apparently, cover charges do not go over real big around these parts. We stayed a while longer. There were a few clumsy attempts by people there to start dancing, but there was no regular “beat” to the music, if you know what I mean. The drummer was hell on wheels, and he was VERY good. He had a couple of solos that were awesome. Bobby performed his "big number" and after that we decided to go. It was about 11:30, and the crowd had thinned even further, to about 15 or so people.
We hugged and kissed out in the parking lot, then got in our cars and went our separate ways. There was no awkward conversation about “where do we go from here” or anything like that. I think we both understood that while we liked each other and had a pleasant enough time together, that we were not compatible mates.
It was kind of an inauspicious (if not somewhat surreal) ending to our time together. Buckingham's wouldn’t have been my choice as a place to meet. I would have picked a place that was maybe a little more “upscale” and had a band (or even a DJ) doing ‘80s music or something of a more "danceable" nature. The place had a lot of “character,” I will give it that, but just didn’t “flow” with what I think Carol had in mind for a final date. I think she felt a little embarrassed that it had turned out to be find of a flat night at Buckingham’s, but I rolled with it and made the best of it.
I drove back home, and exhausted, hit the sack.
Bruce
I have the rather sad task of returning my rental bike today to "Randy," the bike dealer at the Fleamasters flea market.
My vintage 1980s Murray "Westport" has been my trusted steed throughout my stay here, and has never let me down. I've missed having "gears" for a little faster transport on the more lengthy uninterrupted stretches of flat terrain. However, the simplicity and durability of a coaster bike cannot be denied. I remove the custom seat I installed on the bike, and re-install the seat that came with it. Then I drive it over to the flea market, where Randy happily returns half my money -- $50 -- and says he will have no trouble reselling it. I have no use for the basket I bought to go with the bike -- $15 -- so I throw that in for free, along with the cushion handle bar grips that I bought.
I return to the condo, and start packing a few things, although tomorrow will be the major packing day. I also start cleaning the condo in anticipation of Heather's inspection of the place tomorrow. The vacuum cleaner she has provided me sucks -- or rather DOESN'T suck very well -- and it has no upholstery attachment for the hose, so the chairs and couch and sectional and area rug do not get very clean of all the cat hair. But I do the best I can, and at least suck up all the dust/cat hair bunnies that have accumulated in the corners.
(Heather will later assess me a $59 fee for having a maid come in to clean up the cat hair, and I assume the maid had her own vacuum cleaner. So mental note to myself and warning to those relatives thinking about traveling with cats: Most landlords are going to "get you" one way or another for your cats!)
Carol and I continue a few more emails and phone calls about our final "date" for this evening. I am to meet her at approximately 9 p.m. at a placed called“Buckingham Blues Bar,” which according to her can be a very fun place to go, dance, listen to music, etc. But that can vary, she warns, depending on who’s playing, what the crowd is like, etc. When I ask if she knows who's playing this evening, she has no idea.
The bar/club is in the town/village/hamlet (whatever) of Buckingham, which is northwest of Ft. Myers and out in the sticks a bit. The owner is apparently an avid blues patron and hosts regular blues festivals in his fenced-in patio/lawn in back of the bar. I later see that this space includes a HUGE deck area with an outdoor stage, and lots of picnic tables, lawn furniture, etc., to sit, along with a fire pit for colder nights. In the very rear of the property is a pen which houses "Bucky the Buckingham Mule," which is the bar's mascot. So Carol informs me that, if I'm lucky, I'll get to meet him. (I can hardly wait!)
I head out to the bar at about 8 p.m. It is dark, so I set my GPS unit for the address, and it's a good thing. I would never have found this place without it. It's on a twisty, curvy road (perfect for the cops to pick off drunk drivers) and I've got cars on my ass who obviously are paying no heed to the 45mph speed limit.
I get to the place about 8:45 p.m., ahead of Carol, pay the $10 cover charge, stake out a table, order a beer, and watch the "band" finish setting up. I say "band" in quotes, because there are only three people. It is a guy by the name of Bobby Messano (on lead -- and only -- guitar, who apparently is the leader of this rather motley looking crew, and for whom the band is named). He will be accompanied this evening by a drummer and a bassman. All of them looked to be in their late 50s or early 60s, so they were all seasoned musicians. Bobby, in particular, looks like he's got about a million miles on him, and he's got the "no hair in front, but back hair down to this shoulders" thing going on, and he bears an uncanny resemblance to porn star Ron Jeremy.
OK, folks, I know extremely little about blues. There's B.B. King, and everybody else. That's what I know. I guess Messano is somewhat famous in the “blues circles,” but I’d never heard of him. So for a $10 cover charge -- to see what amounts to a trio -- I'm hoping they're passable and at least play some stuff that you can dance to, seeing as how Carol wants to dance.
Carol shows up. She is very tastefully dressed, by the way, in black pants and black blouse with a deep V-neck showing some nice cleavage. So still a little daring, perhaps, but no catwoman costume, thankfully.
She is taken aback that there is $10 cover charge, saying in all the times she has been here, there has never been a cover. So I pay her cover charge as an act of chivalry and tell her not to worry about it ... and that this Messano guy is supposed to be pretty good. She tells me she's never heard of them either. I order up a Bud for Carol, and a fresh one for myself.
They hit their opening number, and they are so earsplittingly loud that Carol covers her ears, and in a short time goes outside and retrieves some earplugs from her car. (OK, show of hands ... anyone out there customarily travel with earplugs in their car? .... Anyone? ... Bueller? ... No, didn't think so. I ask Carol about this, and she says that sometimes she works security patrol at rock concerts located in venues within the Edison College camputs. So there you go.
While Bobby and his two others were very talented, musically, is was not dance music. They were doing a lot riffing, tempo changes, etc. A lot of his songs had long introductions where he’d do some strumming/picking, while talking about where he was and what he was doing when he first heard a particular song. He was dropping a lot of big names, but it was hard to tell if he actually PLAYED with any of these people, or merely attended one of their concerts! What they lacked in depth (due to only being a three piece) they made up in volume. They were WAY over amplified, in my opinion, for a bar of that size.
(I later Google the guy and found out he wrote a tune called "That's Why I Don't Sing the Blues" which I guess was a semi-final contender in a recent Grammy award draft pick. It never made it as a nomination, but apparently you can put some PR spin on just being considered, and this is what Bobby has done. But working blues bars and state/county fairs is about as far as you get when the Grammy committee merely "considers" your song, but you don't make it to a nomination, let alone winning an actual award.)
Anyway, the band takes a break, and we both need some fresh air and some relief from the pounding music, so we go outside to the patio/lawn area to see if we can find Bucky. I stop at the my car and pick up the carrots I have brought. There's no one at the patio tonight, and the flood lights are turned off. Guided by my micro LED keychain flashlight, we make our way back to the paddock, through the latched gate, and start calling for Bucky. And I'll be damned if he doesn't saunter up to the fence, and we proceed to feed him carrots.
It is said the Bucky has a taste for beer, and on "festival nights" back in the patio, people get a big kick out of getting the mule drunk.When Bucky hears a band tuning up out on the patio, he even starts braying in anticipation of his beer. I am not sure of the legality/cruelty aspect of this, but apparently it’s a local institution, and it is said that bets are taken as to when Bucky will keel over from inebriation. I think he enjoyed the carrots just as much.
There was also a nice double-seat swing back there, and Carol and I sat and talked for a while, about nothing in particular, but it was a break from the bar and a chance to get some fresh air (no smoking the bar, by the way, which was kind of surreal watching people out in the parking lot having their smokes.) You got your hand stamped upon entrance, so you could come and go as you pleased, and even take your drinks outside into the parking lot and/or the deck in back.
The "crowd," if you can call it that, was real thin, perhaps about 20-25 people. So apparently, cover charges do not go over real big around these parts. We stayed a while longer. There were a few clumsy attempts by people there to start dancing, but there was no regular “beat” to the music, if you know what I mean. The drummer was hell on wheels, and he was VERY good. He had a couple of solos that were awesome. Bobby performed his "big number" and after that we decided to go. It was about 11:30, and the crowd had thinned even further, to about 15 or so people.
We hugged and kissed out in the parking lot, then got in our cars and went our separate ways. There was no awkward conversation about “where do we go from here” or anything like that. I think we both understood that while we liked each other and had a pleasant enough time together, that we were not compatible mates.
It was kind of an inauspicious (if not somewhat surreal) ending to our time together. Buckingham's wouldn’t have been my choice as a place to meet. I would have picked a place that was maybe a little more “upscale” and had a band (or even a DJ) doing ‘80s music or something of a more "danceable" nature. The place had a lot of “character,” I will give it that, but just didn’t “flow” with what I think Carol had in mind for a final date. I think she felt a little embarrassed that it had turned out to be find of a flat night at Buckingham’s, but I rolled with it and made the best of it.
I drove back home, and exhausted, hit the sack.
Bruce
Friday, June 1, 2012
Duds and Distressed Groceries
(Note: I am composing these closing entries to my blog from Wisconsin, where I have been for the last couple of months. I need to get these events down on paper before they escape my ever increasing feeble mind. Details might be a little sketchy at this point, but the main events are there, and will provide closure for this winter journey.)
Thursday March 29. Today is shopping day, and I have two places I want to visit: The Miromar Outlet Mall, in nearby Estero (just south of Fort Myers); and Dixie Liquidation Groceries, just a bit further south in Bonita Springs.
Miromar Outlet -- This is a very nice outlet mall, done in the newest sytle of "indoor/outdoor" style of architecture, with plazas and fountains scattered every so often to provide places to pause and rest or chat or whatever. Most of the restaurants (at least the sit-down venues) are conveniently clustered together in a central part of the mall. I buy a pair of jeans at the Eddie Bauer outlet store. And to my delight, I fit nicely into a pair with a 38-inch waist. I haven't been the "30s" since probably the late 1980s, so we're talking over 20 years here, folks. This was a good feeling, and I guess all that biking and working out have yielded some results. I also buy a nice button-down shirt at the Van Heusen outlet because I can't find anything I like (and that fits) at E.B. Isn't it amazing how much clothing sizes vary? And I know it is worse for you gals than it is for us guys. Anyway, E.B. has something they call a "slim fit" in a shirt. So I try on an extra-large shirt that is labeled "slim fit." And I'm just about bursting the buttons. Now, is it just me, or is there something inherently paradoxical about an extra large "slim fit" shirt? Fortunately, Van Heusen had something in an extra large shirt made with enough material to actually fit a person of normal proportions.
I follow that up with lunch at a place called the Waterside Seafood and Grill Co., where I have a delicious Grouper sandwich and an iced tea. I check out a few more stores, but I don't buy anything more, for I will just have to haul it back to Wisconsin at this point.
Dixie Liquidation Groceries (DLG) -- this is a very interesting store, located in a strip mall in Bonita Springs. It is not, as you might think, affiliated with the Winn Dixie chain of grocery stores, which are prevalent down here in Florida (although Publix is clearly the dominant grocery chain in these parts). Anyway, DLG is a completely independent store, and they act as "hub" for the various grocery wholesalers in southwest Florida who require an outlet to dispose of all their "seconds." This can include dent and scratched, closeouts, overstocks, stuff that's close to (or at) expiration or "best if eaten by" dates, and so forth. They just truck it all on over to Dixie, and Dixie sells it to the public. Some of it is a terrific bargain, other things aren't that much cheaper than if you simply bought them at a Walmart. A lot of what they have there is "experimental" varieties of foods that companies tried and (obviously) failed. Also, a lot of ethnic foods, for some reason. In any event, it makes for a VERY interesting shopping experience, perusing up and down the aisles and seeing dented boxes of corn flakes that might be next to pallet full of hot-pepper jelly, next to a large box filled with bison jerky, next to large stack of tinned oysters swimming in a savory mustard/dill sauce, and so forth. There's nothing fresh at this store, and nothing frozen. It's all stuff in boxes, jars, pouches, cans, shrink wrapped, etc. There is a guy outside the store selling some local produce, so he must have some type of arrangement with the store, because he's a freelancer. No fresh meat department, and no bakery, unless of course you count the packaged cookies, Donettes, etc., as "bakery."
The other big thing they have there is wine. Deeply discounted wine. Wine you never heard of. I don't spend very much time here, but it is obvious to me that this store is a final resting place of many a vintner's broken dreams of making it big in the wine business.
So anyway, I obviously couldn't load up on much of anything since I'm only here for a couple more days. But I do buy some Milky Way dark chocolate miniature bars (hand packed into ziplock bags, presumably because their original outer plastic bags have hemmoraged in what I can only imagine as some freak warehouse accident), some bison jerky, and some chewing gum, all for the road trip back home. I also buy a packaged noodle mix (chicken flavored with LOTS of sodium) for 50 cents that I am going to prepare with some chicken breasts tonight back at the condo. All in all, a very interesting experience, and I wish I would have explored this place earlier. It's not a place for people who like to eat "fresh" and/or "natural" stuff, because this store is a veritable temple to the processed food industry, and the amazing world of food additives and preservatives.
Back at the condo, I have an email/phone exchange with Carol and am asked to remain on "standby" for Friday night, as she will probably be excused from jury duty tomorrow. She would like to go to "Buckingham's" this little blues bar outside of Ft. Myers that usually has some decent music on Friday nights. She wants to go dancing, and she wants me to meet "Bucky" the official mascot of Buckingham's, who happens to be a mule. Well, Fred Astaire I ain't, but I tell Carol I will give it my best shot. And as for Bucky, I will bring him the remainder of my carrots from the refrigerator.
Bruce
Thursday March 29. Today is shopping day, and I have two places I want to visit: The Miromar Outlet Mall, in nearby Estero (just south of Fort Myers); and Dixie Liquidation Groceries, just a bit further south in Bonita Springs.
Miromar Outlet -- This is a very nice outlet mall, done in the newest sytle of "indoor/outdoor" style of architecture, with plazas and fountains scattered every so often to provide places to pause and rest or chat or whatever. Most of the restaurants (at least the sit-down venues) are conveniently clustered together in a central part of the mall. I buy a pair of jeans at the Eddie Bauer outlet store. And to my delight, I fit nicely into a pair with a 38-inch waist. I haven't been the "30s" since probably the late 1980s, so we're talking over 20 years here, folks. This was a good feeling, and I guess all that biking and working out have yielded some results. I also buy a nice button-down shirt at the Van Heusen outlet because I can't find anything I like (and that fits) at E.B. Isn't it amazing how much clothing sizes vary? And I know it is worse for you gals than it is for us guys. Anyway, E.B. has something they call a "slim fit" in a shirt. So I try on an extra-large shirt that is labeled "slim fit." And I'm just about bursting the buttons. Now, is it just me, or is there something inherently paradoxical about an extra large "slim fit" shirt? Fortunately, Van Heusen had something in an extra large shirt made with enough material to actually fit a person of normal proportions.
I follow that up with lunch at a place called the Waterside Seafood and Grill Co., where I have a delicious Grouper sandwich and an iced tea. I check out a few more stores, but I don't buy anything more, for I will just have to haul it back to Wisconsin at this point.
Dixie Liquidation Groceries (DLG) -- this is a very interesting store, located in a strip mall in Bonita Springs. It is not, as you might think, affiliated with the Winn Dixie chain of grocery stores, which are prevalent down here in Florida (although Publix is clearly the dominant grocery chain in these parts). Anyway, DLG is a completely independent store, and they act as "hub" for the various grocery wholesalers in southwest Florida who require an outlet to dispose of all their "seconds." This can include dent and scratched, closeouts, overstocks, stuff that's close to (or at) expiration or "best if eaten by" dates, and so forth. They just truck it all on over to Dixie, and Dixie sells it to the public. Some of it is a terrific bargain, other things aren't that much cheaper than if you simply bought them at a Walmart. A lot of what they have there is "experimental" varieties of foods that companies tried and (obviously) failed. Also, a lot of ethnic foods, for some reason. In any event, it makes for a VERY interesting shopping experience, perusing up and down the aisles and seeing dented boxes of corn flakes that might be next to pallet full of hot-pepper jelly, next to a large box filled with bison jerky, next to large stack of tinned oysters swimming in a savory mustard/dill sauce, and so forth. There's nothing fresh at this store, and nothing frozen. It's all stuff in boxes, jars, pouches, cans, shrink wrapped, etc. There is a guy outside the store selling some local produce, so he must have some type of arrangement with the store, because he's a freelancer. No fresh meat department, and no bakery, unless of course you count the packaged cookies, Donettes, etc., as "bakery."
The other big thing they have there is wine. Deeply discounted wine. Wine you never heard of. I don't spend very much time here, but it is obvious to me that this store is a final resting place of many a vintner's broken dreams of making it big in the wine business.
So anyway, I obviously couldn't load up on much of anything since I'm only here for a couple more days. But I do buy some Milky Way dark chocolate miniature bars (hand packed into ziplock bags, presumably because their original outer plastic bags have hemmoraged in what I can only imagine as some freak warehouse accident), some bison jerky, and some chewing gum, all for the road trip back home. I also buy a packaged noodle mix (chicken flavored with LOTS of sodium) for 50 cents that I am going to prepare with some chicken breasts tonight back at the condo. All in all, a very interesting experience, and I wish I would have explored this place earlier. It's not a place for people who like to eat "fresh" and/or "natural" stuff, because this store is a veritable temple to the processed food industry, and the amazing world of food additives and preservatives.
Back at the condo, I have an email/phone exchange with Carol and am asked to remain on "standby" for Friday night, as she will probably be excused from jury duty tomorrow. She would like to go to "Buckingham's" this little blues bar outside of Ft. Myers that usually has some decent music on Friday nights. She wants to go dancing, and she wants me to meet "Bucky" the official mascot of Buckingham's, who happens to be a mule. Well, Fred Astaire I ain't, but I tell Carol I will give it my best shot. And as for Bucky, I will bring him the remainder of my carrots from the refrigerator.
Bruce
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