Looking at this chart, it is pretty clear that in this war, I am in the rear with the beer.
Salute to our front-line heroes.
The bottle of Maker’s Mark had been sitting on the shelf for months, unopened, a testament to the fact that I can have good booze in the house and not feel compelled to indulge at the drop of a hat.
But after the president spoke tonight to his administration’s alternately pathetic and misguided response to COVID-19, I broke the wax seal, opened the bottle, and poured a shot over ice.
November cannot come soon enough. In the meantime, thank G-d for good bourbon.
Exercising the democratic privilege of the sovereign franchise for his first time just a week after his eighteenth birthday, Aaron manages to make an American experience even more so by rushing straight from his baseball game to the polling place.
I could be neither more proud nor more grateful.
Put this atop the roll-top to remind me where this all leads.
It’s about 40F outside of my tent as I make my early morning run for bladder relief, and the sun and sky are putting on a show as the rest of the troop sleeps. I had to stop and gawk, letting nature’s call go temporarily unanswered.
Camping in the desert is a delight for me in all but the hottest guy of summer, and it is moments like this that remind me that I need to get out here more often.
If I can’t be on a train, I want to be in a tent.
Camping out with the troop. The youth leaders have got their patrols to sleep, held their quick meeting to plan the next day and turned in for the night. It’s 10pm and totally quiet in the camp. I change my socks, tuck into the bag, zip up, set my alarm for 6:30, put my shoes by the tent door, prop up on my extra sleeping bag, and turn on my Kindle.
A long day, a full belly, a quiet forest, and a warm sleeping bag conspire to shorten my time catching up with Fyodor Dostoevsky, and I’ll be snoring in a few minutes.