Whoa! Didja get the numbers off that truck?!?

June 08, 2006 - 9:09 a.m.


A very astute friend of mine sent me a birthday card last week. It said "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you were?" I put myself at about 42, which is about where that cute little blonde bartender thought I might be. Maybe I should back up a bit.
This was the Big Graduation Weekend. Son2 and I flew down to watch it happen. We flew without incident, I took the up-sell at the rental counter and we tooled off in our Pontiac Grand Prix. I heartily endorse speed sensitive radio! I also endorse the feeder road concept and HOV lanes. Houston roads are easy to figure out. I made my travel arrangements and didn't realize our hotel was in a pretty shitty neighborhood. But it was close to his school and the church where they'd graduate. But it occured to me that I probably shouldn't spend the night of my birthday in a sub-par hotel. Sub par means there are light bulbs stolen from the fixtures (they make great crack pipes, kids!) and the remote for the TV doesn't work. Oh, and it takes no detective work to figure where the bars in the sleeper sofa are, when sitting down. So we got a room here for June 3rd. Much nicer!

This look is used for two occasions: "I'm proud" and "Smell it yet?"

He done did it. I met some of his friends, they're good people. He drove to Bakersfield CA with one of them after graduation in a U-Haul box truck to keep him company and see the USA. When he returns, he'll make the last drive north.
Whilst Son1 was off packing for his trip, Son2 and I ventured out onto the back veranda of our upgraded hotel for some Kowboy Killers. The Woodlands TX is really that, woodlands. The roads and commerce that would be next to it are seperated by huge stands of uncut woodlands. It's a little like driving through a lane in northern Michigan, save for the four foot high signs that point out gas stations and other man-made suburban trappings. This hotel is no exception to the grandeur, and the MILF quotient is through the roof, naturally.
There was an outdoor seating area adjacent to the bar. I'd already had a few beers from the bathroom sink/emergency ice chest in our plush room on the 11th floor, so I was in a good mood; it was time for the Birthday Martini. I told the bar help it was my birthday and hauled out my drivers license to prove it. The delicious little blonde said I looked about 42, I confessed my undying love for her powers of observation. She also whipped up a delicious martini.
There was a cluster of women at a table nearby; the barman came by me and announced that someone else was having a birthday there. I saw him working the table earlier, trying to rustle up a good time. I strode over with alcohol fueled courage and shook her hand. She was very pretty and allegedly 25. I told her I'd trade her birthday songs, and whipped out a blues-y version of Happy Birthday. I thought I did pretty good, I entertained the table of women (who turned out to be a bunch of schoolteachers, there on a conference.) My birthday mate turned out to not be the Birthday Girl, but I didn't care, I was on a roll. I got her story though, newly minted 40-ish divorcee apparently, and a little uncertain about my intentions. I was just out for fun and a laugh, I got both. I got a free martini too, from the cute blonde. She didn't want me to know.
Happy Birthday? Damn right. Best ever. Stay tuned.

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