AFTER DINNER AND during drinks and conversation. Not much compos mentis for writing. Here’s a pic.
Update: Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.
I managed, despite directions from the natives this time, to once again get lost getting out of Dodge — er, Indy, I mean. Out 38th Street until you hit the beltway. Easy, right? Not for me. Once I hit the next county east, it finally occurred to me that I musta missed the turn. Stopped and — wait for it — asked for directions. But then, disregarded the directions and, as I was now oriented, I went the way I thought was best. I.E., the opposite one from the one my interlocutor had recommended.
But I got back to 465 South, found the exit to Cincinnati (this time), and headed home. As has been reported elsewhere, a front or a back or something blew through or across or over the state of Indiana around seven-ish, with gusts up to Warp Factor Ten, Mr. Sulu. As I tooled along looking for my missing interchange, I got crosswinds that blew me all over the road (as the old joke goes). There was a steady stream in a cross wind of leaves and other debris (and, out in the county, leaves and stalks from corn fields) zipping across the road. Once I got onto I-74 headed east, it got even heavier. (Though there was a while there when I hoped I’d outrun the front.) Some rain showers made life interesting by streaking the windshield and scattering oncoming headlights into a headache-inducing glare. A lot of the debris looked scarily like running wild animal. And, then again, the deer carcass in the middle of the road looked an awful lot like some stationary debris.
Except for the blood, guts, and gore.
Right. Except for that. As I was pulling into the lone rest area along the route Indy-to-Cincy, I got spooked by a particularly solid-looking plastic bag that I swore for just enough of an instant to hit my brakes was a rabbit or something similar.
Not weather I would have wished to be out in on a two-wheeler. Glad Roberta was home by the time it blew through.
And it followed me into Cincinnati. As I rounded the Lytle Tunnel and headed up the I-71 through the Deer Creek area, I saw leaves and small branches skittering across the pavement in swirling winds. I stopped at Popeye’s for some fried chicken (being too tired and lazy to fix a home-cooked dinner), and got home about three hours after departure. Toni’s answered my “Made it safely” call with, “About time!”
And one of our garbage cans was (is) at the bottom of the steps in the breezeway.
Gee. Wonder how it got that name.
I gave it to it.
Shouldn’t it be obvious?
Blog meet. Much fun. Lotsa laughs traded on myriad subjects. Get a bunch of gunnies together and most of them’ll be mostly conservative or libertarian of some stripe (but not, in this crowd (thank Grid), card-carrying LPUSA members). So you can imagine that most of the jokes were at the expense of leftists. As it should be.
Roberta has the rollcall, so I won’t try to recapitulate that. The picture above was the result of my attempt to catch Breda taking a picture of her Scotch eggs. I should point out that ONLY Breda failed to think it a good picture, so we jollied her into accepting the fait accompli of its posting. And as a reward for good sportswomanship, I shared some recent pictures of Loki with her, which made her feel a little better.
And I just noticed, looking at the above picture of blogresses, that Tam once again has lazors locked. She’s good that way.
Oh! Also! Say something nice about Breda’s white streak, please. I was so clueless as to not notice the change. Shame on me.