T R U T H

It is much like a school assignment or a deliverable at work. Today you must write about . . . . anatomy. But I can pick any subject, any style, any length, take as much time as I want and yet it often feels like an assignment. Real writers talk about the torture of the blank page staring back at you daring you to put some words, any words down but what if they stink? I want to go to only the best places with a jazz trio or quartet playing in the background while we take a quick break from the town or the market or the stroll through the lush pageantry of color or design. Here's the ensuing story:

We deplane in Pitchfork after one of those more time on the runways than in the air flights. We did our b-bye to the flight attendant and wheeled our carry-on along the winding corridors out to the curb where we board a taxi and head for Velcro Ranch. No one will probably notice my hat embroidered "Save Selfrich" in honor of the the embattled harpist. Shaylene greets us at the ranch and before we can ask, she hands us each a pint of Brosner IPA as we bypass the check-in line thanks to our VIP booking. The room is part art deco, part post-modernist chic and part classic southwest. The bed is welcoming but we have plans that require heading back down to the street.  You see, what I know that she doesn't know is that there is a chauffeur-driven golf cart waiting for us that will shuttle us to the vineyard, the artisan bazaar and the pubs with VIP tour/seating privileges. As I turn to her to disclose this luxury treatment I secretly arranged, I am wowed because she has taken off all of her clothes and pulls me down on the bed where we spent the next 48 hours and never saw anything but the ceiling in Pitchfork. And that's the truth, bub.

lo 7s today - great rainy day