My mother-in-law lives in what D calls an old folks dorm. A
retirement community with apartments and a communal dining
facility. The had a shindig for Fathers' Day today and we
attended. I'm a father, but D isn't and neither is he mom,
but there you have it. I got the food I expected: rubber
chicken, greasy fried okra, banal gumbo, bland potatoes, dry
cornbread. Caffeteria food, that is.
BUT they provided entertainment in the form of an old man
with a guitar, a small Fender PA setup and at rich baratone
voice. He did some clinkers by me lights, but he sang an hour-
long set of mostly classy old country songs that brought
smiles to our faces. All of us.
It made up for the chicken.
Almost.
Afterwards, D and I went to Central Market and picked up a
goofy bottle of Zinfandel. It's a glass jug with a ring for
your thumb at the neck and a screw cap. I'm sipping a glass
of it now, and whadya know, it ain't bad.
modom
"If you have a racist friend, Now is the time, now is the
time For your friendship to end."
-- The Specials