The Weekly Walk With Me

I hit the road again this weekend.  I walked out of the office at 3:30 on Friday and decided to head a little further east.  Where I'm from the "river" is where you go to break beer bottles and let your dog shit on the rocks on any given Tuesday. The "rivah" is where you go to get away and get drunk on expensive wine in places that serve molasses for hoecakes and have bologna burgers on the menu.
The artists aren't starving here, they are the bored wives of successful men.  They are retired District Attorneys who took up watercolor.  It's the kind of place with constant contradictions. A place untouched by time: a Main Street, U.S.A. with flowing American flags just screaming for a story line on Dateline Saturday Night Mysteries.
I slept in this glorious old lady bed in a boutique hotel:

With this giant old lady clock that sat on 4:20:

I walked the town and down to the water with a naked face. I let my feet get dirty and sunburned.  I sat at a local bar and was force fed mojitos through a bendy straw by a complete stranger.  I met a boy who talked about strong beer, his bluegrass band, his friend's pedophile roommate, and his former professor's scandalous affair with a student.
I spent money at places that sold dusty old dead things like this:

In the same room with works by known artists with price tags like this:

I didn't buy it...

I let my phone die on Saturday night.  And woke up on Sunday morning to have breakfast at a biker bar before I took the long way home.