Smile High Club

Darrrrrr. Here I sit in Herndon, VA. The only thing remorely satisfying about the trip so far was getting in early enough to catch the second half of the Saints dismantling the vaunted Cowboys. In Texas Stadium! Other than that, nada.

I flew from Sacramento back to Tampa on Saturday, getting home around 9 PM. I was on a plane here at 7:20 PM on Sunday. I had just enough time home to take the wife to TJ Maxx and Olive Garden. Didn't mind Olive Garden, but then again, as a member of the man club I do prefer eating to shopping.

Flying in to Tampa I witnessed the most beautiful sight. We were dropping slowly from the sky onto the tarmac, and were still a few hundred feet aloft. Looking out the window you had the mostly dark sky. The clouds had a slight backlighting, which I'm guessing that the moon held some responsibility for. The lower half of the window view, if you think of the window somewhat as a television screen, was the soft orangish white carpet of light that would be the lights of Tampa. South Tampa and Westshore, to be exact.

Then, out of the light carpet of the Tampa city night, shooting into the heavens like the screaming rocket that it was, the space shuttle took off from Canavral. It streaked off, climbing in it's orangish glow, looking like one of the safe city lights gone rogue. Beautiful and raw. Powerful. It climbed quickly, playing peekaboo in and out of the backlit clouds and soon was gone. The scene played out in about 2 minutes. Less time than it took us to land. I was moved.

Pipedragger drove his bike up from the Bay Area to Sacramento Friday night. He races bikes and can lay her down so low her pipes will drag in the curves. In case you had ever wondered about the moniker.

We headed out to Old Sacramento and walked around a bit, looking for the best place to eat. We settled on a place that was part old west saloon and part Irish pub. I had a pastrami cheeseburger. Yep. It was as good as it sounds. After eating, we headed back to my hotel area and parked my chick-magnet of a minivan. We walked over to The Rusty Duck , which I thought looked like a 3 story 19th century sawmill but is described in the link I provided as being a hunting lodge motif, and commenced to quaffing microbrews (Mostly Sierra Nevadas with a couple of Fat Tires thrown in for variety) and realizing our politics differ. We quickly changed the subject off of politics and went back to what ex-squids do best. Swapping sea stories.

Tales from the road shall continue... in it's own intermittent way. You know, satisfying in a way that really isn't.

Mostly Sonny with a slight chance of Cher, out
Ramblin' Ed