like the meeting might be a bad thing:
When I get to meet The Almighty I'm going to have a big old bitchfest. So God, how about your downer friends? See, it's not so bad meeting You.
We left our home in the capable hands of the house sitter who promised not to kill the plants and we got on the road.
It was a funny day Sunday with the weather veering between summer rain storms and bursts of bright crisp sunshine. We stopped for coffee in Key Largo and Cheyenne did her best to avoid the rain.
I spotted a bizarre logo on a construction truck and laughed a little to myself. Who dreams these slogans up?
Building intelligence? A boss with delusions of grandeur I take it. On the other hand cheap houses are for sale as the mortgage banking crisis strangles the economy:
While NASCAR came to Homestead with the First Lady to watch the last race of the season with three points separating the leaders. Southbound cars on Florida's Turnpike backed up for miles, we rolled just fine well beyond the speed limit.
By lunchtime we were in Boynton Beach for Jewish food at Flakowitz, a staple of our road trips.
A full on Jewish deli for lunch involves a potato knish, stuffed cabbage leaf and matzo ball soup.
Stuffed we set off on the Turnpike once again, passing the nearly dead of Fort Worth and the Magic Mouse Kingdom and on to Interstate 75 toward Georgia. More rain.
I did envy this sport bike riders for a minute but a man does need his family from time to time. The house sitter doesn't get to use the Bonneville in my absence.
Stupid bastard riding the turnpike at 80 miles an hour taking his helmet for a ride on the hook...Oh, and if you need a cow for dinner this is the place to stop to pick one up on your way home:
God showed up again in that part of Florida known as Georgia South. Weird how the Almighty is a White Guy in a beard. Perhaps I'm related?
Skies cleared ready for an early winter sunset. Not as lovely as sunset over the Florida Keys, nowhere near as lovely.
Cheyenne had her dinner in a rest area. A woman from somewhere up North asked from across the lot if my dog was on leash? No I yelled back. Does she need to be, the idiot called? Huh? My attack Labrador ravaging a bowl of kibble. No one got out alive.
Then came the bad news. We wanted beer to accompany the roast chicken dinner transported from Flakowitz but we were in Eastern Georgia. The workers at the supermarket 60 miles south of Columbus, our destination, told us no alcohol for sale on Sunday. Columbus, a progressive University town does allow alcohol sales in restaurants only on Sundays, no take out. We risked damnation and opened a bottle of wine bound for my wife's sister in Asheville and drank it in the room like bootleggers in a speakeasy. Stupid stuff. I don't often desire alcohol but when it is banned it becomes the Elixir of Life itself.
Piggly Wiggly was so named by the founder of the chain who created uneven aisles to force customers to check out everything as they navigated this new style of shopping. Nowadays it's just another supermarket here competing with the ubiquitous Publix chain from Florida.
My wife's iPhone went nuts and sent us to the torture School of the Americas presumably confused by the military radio waves and electrons but we called the hotel and the clerk said Huh? when asked for directions. No one knows anything anymore.
Cheyenne was glad to get out of the Fusion after 14 hours and 750 miles. So was I.
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