Y'all get a little comfortable now as I tell you a little story.
A blackenin' aerospace is what met my transatlantic outta Myoon-Nick as it galloped on down into Veh-ginya. Down below the Dulles monitors were filled with the lamentations of herds of passages delayed by two and three hours. Sighed relief, I did, when my Super 80 to Dallas was only delayed 30 minutes.
Turns out I sighed too soon.
We smoldered in the belly of our winged iron buffalo on the tarmac for 2 1/2 hours as rain torrents spilled down sorrow from the heavens. Finally ascended, corralled into the narrow calm between two 20,000 foot super cells, and as bolts of lightning flashed around, I smiled to myself dreamin' they were some gunslingers upon the control tower firin' celebratory rounds up in the air.
Away south and west we went, o'er the Appalachains, o'er the pig farms of Arkansas towards the green yards and glass canyons of Dallas.
Saddlesore at midnight, the folks in Dallas informed the passengers that the winged buffalo would go no further. She was either tired, or more likely, the crappy airline that drove her didn't want to whip a half empty plane to San Antonio at 1 am.
So, after 26 hours of traveling the widths of Europe, the Atlantic and half the States, I rested too short in an overpriced inn; a Potemkin palace with horrible water pressure.
The next morning, finally descended onto the pastures and golf courses of San Antonio. I bought sun glasses and met my companions at the baggage claim. The air of San Antoin' was fresh as any I'd breathed in a long time. We feasted on a Mexican breakfast, picked up some Amazon sundries I'd sent ahead in the wagon train and headed into town to see the Alamo.
I didn't remember the Alamo, 'cause I ain't never been there before. But I'll remember it now 'cause I seen it, and it looks real good. 'Cept for that Ripley's Believe It or Not 'cross the street - that's kinda tacky.
Then we sauntered on down long the riverwalk, browsed some shops and smelled the food at the restaurants and lunched on cold margaritas n' murdered Elk.
But the whole gosh darn reason for comin this far was to go to a wed-in in Corpus Christi where friends Eric n' Kat were tyin the knot.
Corpus is a small, nice waterside place with good people. Weddins always remind me that my friends and their compadres and kin are of the best stock and even with the coyotes, snakes and scorpions, the whole ranch will be alright so long as they and theirs are still shearin' the sheep.
Speakin of shearing, I got my head shaved for the wed-in and then we went to go get stung by jellyfish (Ukrainians call em "medusas") in the Gulf o' Mexico.
The wedding was super nice in a courtyard with pretty ladies and fine cigars. We danced that night away to Michael Jackson and ate a pudge dog that tasted like sweet cake. The night ended in a roadhouse with a jukebox and sipped suds from bottles.
But neh, I see how that fellar Stephen King stayed at a dark, aging hotel with day-glo seventies carpetin and penned a good ol' hor-rohr novel. Can still see dwarf poltergeists with wide brim hats peekin out at me from behind yellowed curtains in the pool area. That horror and the one that they didn't even give us a free continent'l breakfast.
After a trip to Texas I've become a man of few words, fewer so-called facts and as a matter of fact I will be like so for a long while.
Actually I'm done cowboy talking right now because I can't think of anymore cowboy lingo and anyhow people in Texas really don't talk that way.
Congrats Kat and Eric!
