Boycotting (non-Irish)

It’s closing in on midnight. I just downed some Alka-Seltzer – the traditional antacid/fever reducer kind. The kind that – yes – Don Draper has with his morning mail. So let’s just say that what Don Draper feels in the morning, I have already reconciled by midnight.

I stayed indoors; either inside of a house or car for the whole day – spent the first part reading, the middle part with Billy Blanks, and the other part with E and because E is boycotting everything that has to do with the weather because Michigan people think the spring equinox should guarantee the end of snow even though every single March throughout the history of time AD has provided snow,sleet, and bluster, we had to stay enclosed. I figured I’d go along with the boycott of everything since I am, as I mentioned in a previous post, just an ethnographer here.

We drove past the Rouge Factory and broke our boycott for a short moment to get out and check out this magnificent vehicle for sale:

1,200 bucks and you can have a low-mileage 1990 Mercury Gran Marquis V8 – perfect for a demolition derby or for the frequent craft show vendor.

The added bonus of stepping outside was that I let a little bit of the Rouge in my car for good. By opening your doors in that area you let a little bit of Henry Ford in. Those pink downriver sunsets? They look great but they stink like sun-heated-three-day-old-broccoli-in-plastic.

Other highlights: lavender colored Hostess Snow-Balls (if only they were lavender flavored) , pictures from Bobby M and texts from Bethany in Texas, my new car stereo, tinted windows, Emma’s FLWright House tales, peepin, creepin, and emails from my sister.

Pennisulation

These days, these sunshiny days are my marker. The ethnographical reason why I moved back to Michigan for the season. I don't want to ever forget how after a long, gray and snowy winter, any day pushing the fifty-degree-Fahrenheit mark calls for jhorts. It is cause for not only celebration but for condemnation; What? inside? I can't see a movie on a day like this! There is sun out there. It is a beautiful day. We have to put on performance wear and breath fresh air.

Y'all cackling about a beautiful day this is like its the first thing that has ever happened to anyone. Like god ordered us to work indoors, like the Tigers are in the World Series and Meijers is handing out orange hand towels, like it's opening day for rifle hunting season, like they are filling the potholes on I-96...

Move to Florida already. I'll watch a movie or read a book or learn how to play world-of-warcraft - all indoors on the only sun-filled day in a year. I'm not a dirt-worshipping pagan. That bright orange ball would kill you if it had the chance and in fact it's coming this way - inch by inch, light year by light year just waiting for the opportunity to turn your skin into molten snot.

Designers on the Fringe

From the kids section at the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Vice Presidentially Fashioned

 

Helping myself to seconds at the Dan Quayle Center, & The United States Vice Presidential Museum in Huntington, IN

Project Next

I think I took some promising notes last night:

SKL's Handmade Hotel Room Weapons

• Ironing board in closet – use as shield/body armor.
• Lamp – heavy handled – most are bolted down.
• Iron – probably the best – a kind of Cat-and-nine-tails
• Ice bucket? Not very useful but you can use the top as door jammer.
• Glassware – check for lightbulbs (might be too messy – would you just smash over head? In eyes?)
• Coffee pot is best – class with handle – what more could you want? Fill with pebbles from...?
• Think about filling bathtub with water and having a blow dyer plugged in nearby - electrocute perp. Be sure to leave sign to remind self...

The State of Affairs. In Kentucky.

My broken toe was irreparably damaged by the 7 hour drive to L'Ville, the bruise no longer cute or shapely, just bogus. The main thing I notice about being, maybe-a-lil-bit, older now is that any drive longer than six and a half hours makes me feel like I slept on a futon.

Ain't nobody sleeping in Derby City tonight though. After complaining about the toddler sacrifice and loud teenagers on floor 16, the front desk people put me on a high, higher floor where, as the women tells me there is NO ONE else occupying ANY rooms. So, the facts are that I am on an odd floor containing the number 9 and I can't shake the distant echo of hotel doors opening and closing and horses galloping and ladies fainting and bookies booking - all just far enough down the hall to not investigate. It all has me convinced that I am on a haunted floor or in a bad John Cusack movie or both.  The view from my foggy top floor window at this rancid has-been hotel on the banks of the OH-Hi-O River may be my last.  They say there are only two kinds of people that die in Ohio; one's going to hell and one's already there. (I totally made that up)

When I let him in, I told the room service guy that, I've got a hooker in the shower, lets not make a thing about it. I'd tried to  prevent opening the door at all by screaming, JUST LEAVE IT OUTSIDE but he couldn't hear me or didn't think he'd get a tip that way. So I turned on the shower and shut the bathroom door to give the appearance of another person in the room just so he wouldn't notice that the glasses-of-wine-to-people-in-the-room ratio was way off base. Street smart solo travelers know how to 1) Travel Defensively 2) Confuse  3) Divert.  But do they know how to stay alive?

Travelers Justice

Dear Priceline,
I just checked into the Galt House Hotel - a facility that you list as 3PLUS stars. I feel it is my duty to tell you that this place is like a middle age woman still ordering jack and cokes at the bar through her pack-a-day prune lips.  It is old, damp, dirty, loud, and the amenities are half-open - the ones that really count (that Liquor store you mention? Completely CLOSED). The place is much too large to navigate making it more of a refuge hostel, not a respectable hotel. Not only did I have to wait seven times as long for an elevator because of the scads of unsupervised doughy teen boys (there for the KAAC Governors Cup) farting around on the elevators, I had to move my room because there was a family of five having a ritualistic child beating right next door! (If it helps with your records - it sounds, from the wailing, that they were first pumped full of some kind of Kentucky sugar and then beaten with a hand-tooled belt).  And on the other side of room 16XX? An Ice machine! And you know how much ice teen boys need. What a racket. I'd have better luck getting a good night's rest by setting up a rucksack headrest under the fountain pop rig at at any Speedway gas station. Also, the club sandwich is made with a croissant. Please, take this hotel down a couple stars.
Sincerely,
SK

Wet, Dim, and Early: A Spring in Memphis

I froze my ears off on a late afternoon walk.

 

Famous Irish Grudgeholders

boycott [boi'kŏt'] - “refuse to do business with with someone.” From Charles C. Boycott (1832-1897), the Irish land agent for an absentee landlord. Boycott refused to conform to land reforms supported by the Irish Land League. The League acted against Boycott by preventing his access to stores, postal service and other economic necessities. Boycotting is an important tool in campaigns of passive resistance to unjust social conditions.

Top Guided Tour Experiences

A list so far.

1. National Park Ranger at Ford's Theater in Washington, D.C.
2. Shady Personal Driver Ocho Rios (and inland), Jamaica
3. Ron at RCA Studio B in Nashville, TN
4. Tie with Rail Engine Repair Shop and Newsprint shop at Greenfield Village Detroit, MI
5. Old Bus Driver Catalina Island, CA
6. Chubby young fella at the Motown Museum in Detroit, MI

Reminder - I'm on the road so check the Tumblr Site for pics.

Memphishead: The Only Downside So Far

I have sent word out that old fashioned medications are better than new fashioned ones. No, this is not part of my "Revive the Quaalude" campaign. It is entirely separate.  But I hope that this explanation helps.

I got a migraine with aura this morning and it pissed me off. Migraine with aura sounds like something you order up, "I'll have one falafel tart with aura and thank you." All it really means is that you can't see past the lightening bugs in your own eyes. A visual freak out.

I'm telling you the best thing to do is take four Motrin and one Midrin with a short glass of whiskey (aged less than 12 years) and then follow in hour with a bottle of Dr. Pepper. You will feel better in three hours as opposed to Imitrix which just makes you feel like you are suffocating for five hours.

Road.

I'm out and about on the Tennessee Highways. Check my Tumblr if you want to see pics or send me your snail mail and you can get a postcard. Will update soon.

Colors. Colors.

I like green. This book BB bought me at a record shop (in Chicago) says that it means I am normal and balanced. Obviously the book is out of date. MY new book on colors will state that if you like green... you are a money machine!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(And on the visual aesthetics of drug culture: acid culture was so much more visually pleasing than today's pot culture... or yesterday's E culture..or tomorrows Adderall culture...)

 

Inside that book I found this:

Sister Ponchita! Tell me: What does the future hold? I like green, yellow, audiobooks, mechanical pencils, RainX, and museums. What does it all mean?

I'm Trying To Eat

I overheard a couple well, one part of a couple, talking in the booth next to me at Potbelly today. They had just come from the baby doctor.

“Kaitlyn…call me back I have good news…”

“Jess… call me back, I have good news….”

The guy sits cross from her, eating his toasted sub.

The phone rings, once….

“Hi? Yes… It’s a boy. Hheehee… I know.. yyyeeah. Yyeahh.”

That’s her good news? I imagine her voice mail if it was a girl, Kaitlyn, call me back…I have something to tell you…  Jess, call me back…we have to talk…

The new mom is foil-highlight-blonde, wearing white Kswiss sneakers, and a smart knobby knit pink sweater, probably from The Buckle. She dreams of Kate Spade bags. Her husband eats sub sandwiches, wears plaid, and has XY-dominant sperm.

“I know… uh-huh.. yeah… well his mom has all brothers.. five of them.. so that’s probably where it comes from….hehehe… yeah…”

“Beck, call me back.. I have good news…”

Can’t you just say, we got our ultrasound and it’s a boy? Isn’t this a good topic for Twitter? Who is this good news for, you freaky obnoxious goodnews gatekeeper? I would be pissed if I went through all the trouble of checking voicemail and called someone back and this was all they had to say:

“Hello, yea-awh… it’s a boy…we got a CD of the ultrasound pics. You have to come over and see them.”

I hope she is talking to the adoptive parents.

The guy gets up to refill his pop. He has not let out a peep.

He is not on his phone.

“We are thinking, Michael… no middle name yet.”

“Jen… call me back..I have good news…”

“Rach…call me back..I have good news…”

"My toy poodle was in a sci-fi movie," and other things from the dog show.

Our Dogumentary motto at the Dog Show this weekend was, Every dog has a story, what's yours? We heard countless divorce and ex-lover tales. One woman told me "oh we have stories," and pointed to her friend and said "this one here had to breast feed a puppy..."

I can imagine only three circumstances where you would need to breast feed a puppy. One of them involves being rescued on a huge, snowy mountain by a pregnant Saint Bernard who, after giving you whiskey from the wooden barrel around her neck, goes into a violent labor and gives birth and your only chance at getting down the mountain is to nurse her three puppies to a size where you can hook them up to their dead mother (with scraps from your mountain climbing performance wear) to ride the furry corpse of their dead mother back down the mountain.

Those women didn't look much like mountain climbers.

Take a look at my terrier racing montage:

Money Well Spent

I've spent money on many questionable things in my little life; A book on angel guides, Greyhound Bus tickets, chemo, cheeseburgers, pale nail polish, cheap tires, movie tickets to "W." and countless dresses that "remind me of flappers." 

But I found that putting up the paper for an exhibitors booth at the Detroit Kennel Club Show (this weekend! come visit! Booth 9!) made me feel weirder than all of the above. 

I'm rolling the dice on dog bones.  I need Claritin.

Cobo Hall Before:

Stay tuned for the after.

A Fave Postcard From Trip Back To Mich 08

Bought at Jesses James Museum in Stanton, MO. My sister and I got there a fully full two and a half hours before closing time but the four hundred pound store clerk and tour guide refused to let us in the Wax Museum part because she was closing up early to see the new episode of Big Brother.

The Best One Out Of My 90s Collection

 

Postcard from 1997 CC (that's cross-country) Trip with Kris-O. We took her Jetta on the Salt Flats during the day, in the summer, under the sun, unsupervised, unregistered, and unclocked.  And well, we got lost because mirages are real, very real. There was water up ahead at every turn.  Only flat white land to tell us where we'd been and where to go. Speed - the only way out. A fast gamble in a whatever direction, our fifth attempt worked. Mirages are real, speed is real, salt is flat, life is a pink postcard with cars. 

My Fella & Kelly's Grandma, Special People

I got an old fashioned box of chocolates for Valentine's Day. When I told E this she said, "well I hope the chocolates aren't old!"

Nope, just old fashioned meaning handmade chocolates in a heart-shaped red-foil box:

Kelly told me that her grandmother got a box of chocolates from her grandfather and she saved the box FOREVER and kept the little paper cups in place inside the heart box and stored her earrings in them.  I don't have pierced ears anymore but I love that idea.

Candy boxes forevs.

Wine of Infidels

There is this precious publication you can pick up at restaurants around Dearborn, its called Coffee News and their logo is "Free Smiles Every Week." It's so likeable - the design is reminiscent of the zine age - just a folded 17X11 sheet printed on both sides.

It has seven categories: Everybody's Talking, Quotable Quotes, What's Happening, Trivia, Weekly Word Search, Did You Know, and On The Lighter Side.

You'd think Everybody's Talking would steal the show but let me share with you this, Did You Know:

In 1592, Pope Clement VIII declared coffee to be a Christian drink and he officially recognized it as such in an edict. Until then, the drink had been considered by many Catholics to be the "wine of infidels."

Mercury Retrograde. Cannot Communicate.

I miss my spin class instructor, Connie from Glendale, California. Every class she'd come in late and say, "What a crazy day? Is Mercury in retrograde?" and I would shout from my fake bike, "I think it is, I really do." Never mind the facts. Feel the burn.

Yesterday I got a letter from the Michigan Department of Corrections that my perp (incident New Years Day, Detroit, 2002) has been transferred to a minimum security facility. He's due for parole in 2013. I wonder if he has made friends or found god. I wonder about other stuff too. Muskegon.

Thank you Jen Granholm. Please release all the nonviolent drug offenders first. Some people should be in jail. I like how you can look these guys up online. OTIS.

And then I get an all-business voice mail from someone to some officer - wasn't meant for me one bit: 

Officer Anderson

And then in my email I get a Gchat voicemail from the mysterious Nirmal Binny. Sounds like she didn't even know it was on and it is not that interesting but her name is:

Nirmal Binny Says

My lines of communication: Minimum security. Maximum confusion.

And now I am off to visit a little baby.

I got up early this morning. Something inside of my head said, “get up girl! You have to email Malcolm Gladwell!” I spent fifteen minutes thinking about my Fall Drive Project video that I HAVE To finish by mail cut off time tomorrow. Thinking about video naturally led me to thinking about my Dogumentary work and how much there is to do before the Detroit Dog Show next weekend. Then I thought about the m*th*r fuc**in students that were talking in class last night when I was trying to lecture.

Then I wrote a short email to Malcolm Gladwell about his book – Outliers which is quite interesting and confirms all kinds of things like yeah, Bill Gates is a genius but it kind of helped that his parents were well-to-do, concerned parents that bought his school a computer in 1968 when most college professors didn’t have access to computers. It confirms stuff like "you have to practice if you want to be great at something" which is as inspiring to hear as "you have to eat less if you want to be thin." I like paraphrasing things like that because I get 50% of it wrong. But I was compelled to write him because in the audio book version - I listened to the audio version on the way to and from Chicago (tells you what a zippy drive Fowlerville to Chicago is) – he gives an interview on the last track and the line of questioning leads to his Canadian citizenship which leads to him talking about why Canadians make great comedians. His theory is that most successful comics are minorities (black or jewish) -- from “the outside” – so it is safe for them to make fun of the dominant culture. I think this is an interesting theory but I wonder – why about female comedians? They are a minority and people hate on them for being, or trying to be as the haters say, funny. Deep thoughts. Dear Mr. Gladwell, How are you? I am fine. My boyfriend thinks you look funny.

I then spent five minutes adding on a Gmail feature that lets people know where I’m sending email from. Then I thought about the implications of that for ten minutes and then I remembered I am not working for corporate USA anymore and nobody is watching me (that hasn’t already been watching – Hello KGB!). And now I am off to visit a little baby.

Second Floor

Confused in a Chicago parking garage, we pushed all the buttons on the elevator and found an empty shop on L2 just waiting for us to stock the shelves with colored pencils and gilded frames and gummi bears and autographed Grishams or whatever.

Valentines, Ideas, & Cheeseburgers

I'm off to Chicago to visit my main squeeze.  I leave you with some photos from Miller's Bar in Dearborn. Ryan and I met to eat some cheeseburgers and talk about big ideas. The place was decked out VDay ExtremeO. We ordered our burgers "medium" but they came to us "Valentine Style" - very very medium rare. We ate them anyway.

Happy Friday the 13th and Happy Valentines Day friends and everyone.

Inspiration From Armpit Thermometers

I've been extremely busy the past couple days - I know - who isn't? But, I am talking about blog-neglect-busy. I'm gearing up to set sail to Chicago after class tomorrow and sail I will judging from the blasting wind haunting my country windows... I need a windsock for my car.

The main update of the day is I had a chance to visit my BF and her new babe, Max, who is three months old as of yesterday. I couldn't help but notice that his cute level was sky high this morning. I was compelled to mention it to my friend, "he looks extra Xtra cute today."

"Oh, he's really rosy because he has a fever."

And that afternoon, instead of making it to the oil change place on time, I purchased some creme bush. It's called Hint of Rose but I call it Fever Face. Which is what I will have if I am stranded with a dirty oil engine on the side of the road in Gary, Indiana, wind whipping my scandinavianirish cheeks to a rare pulp, attracting tweaked out truckers and adventure-seeking businessmen. I now call the blush, Roadside Flare Up.

PS My cheek heritage changes in the summer.

Questions You Can Ask

I have a few (grown adult) friends that are in constant contact with their PARENTS. They call them on the phone every hour and have conversations like "What did you eat for lunch? I am going to take a bath. I'm not wearing socks." Things like that.

These are grody time fillers. Banal statements to prove our existence to each other.

I don't want to talk to my parents or be reminded that I exist in this boring world of lunch menus and home to work route discussions. I want to be asked things like "Do you think I should take my company down with insider information or snipers?" "Do you want to come with me on a Scandinavian cruise?" "What do you think about the show 24?" "Would you rather be eaten by a whale, shark, or a school of piranhas?" "Can I tell you a deep dark terrible secret that will change our lives forever?" or simply, "Will you hold this?"

That is what ... is talking about

Benefit show last night was good. Hope it did some good.

In the Valley of the Shadow of...

Further celebration of the new Flickr Photo Group for real cultural tourists.  Framing the Marvelous Museum Model.

From my spring '08 travel archives, I bring you pictures from a little place near Death Valley called Shoshone. The Shoshone Museum is a lil place chock full of taxidermy desert animals and a special exhibit and an opportunity to buy self-published stories about the outlaw women of Death Valley.

 

Join the Flickr group now and check out my Death Valley video for extra fun.

More Museum

A few days ago I wrote about my love for the retro diorama in the Hoover Dam Old Exhibit Building in honor of the launch of my Flickr Photo Group (plug). I promised to all of you dear readers that I would not stop there. I dedicate this week to museum raves. This evening I share with you my favorite animated animal in a museum experience:

Old Billy the Fire Horse at The Fire Museum of Memphis.  The real life/horse size animatronical introduction to the history of the Fire Horse goes on for about five minutes and has video accompaniment.

Ol Billy The Fire Horse from kayekilla on Vimeo.

Winter Villa

It's cold here, snowing that kind of dusty styrofoam-floam snow that just blows around hunting for things to dust with freeze like my car door locks and my ears.

This is what The Donut Villa looks like tonight:

To Diorama For.

In honor of my new and soon to be popular Flickr group "Framing the Marvelous Museum Model", I am going to recall some of my favorite museum/tourist attraction set-ups on here over the next couple of days.

I have been racking my brain for examples of people doing metadocu projects on museum models, like taking pictures of animals in natural history museums, or gangsters in the Autry Museum, or spunky fifties waitresses from Route 66 museums, but I can't recall if I have heard of such work. I am sure there is something if only because I know I am hard at work documenting all of the historical fake wax people and animals and city and geographical models I can find. Documenting the display; a travelogists work is never done. Next up: the Cereal Box or Beer Display photo collection group. 

The greatest diorama/museum set up in all of my travels has to be at the "Old Exhibit Building" at The Hoover Dam.  It's the building near the 'angels':

The Hoover Dam itself is probably one of the most patriotic tourist attractions you can visit. It is even more American than Mount Rushmore because those carved faces aren't really doing a whole lot, other than reminding us that chicks can't be prez, and Teddy R's 'stach will always be in style. The Hoover D is one of the greatest engineering feats in the world, 660 feet of concrete at it's base, it supplies power to three states, and it might have been the only huge gov'ment construction contract to be built ahead of schedule.  (At the expense of a few lives, but I said it was American, didn't I?)

When you visit the Hoover Dam in the summer like I did, you can't believe than anyone could work in the kind of heat dealt out by the Nevada sun, let alone deal with heavy material like concrete and steel in such a death oven. It's the kind of hot that makes you nauseous and forget you have a stomach. Like the sun rays have wrapped a hankie of chloroform around your face and are kidnapping you into a heatStrokeComa. That is what happened to my sister on our way back to the parking lot after 'the tour", she was about to get pulled into the sunstroke abyss, nearly fainting and ralphing from the 110 degree heat, when we found refuge in a strange little building behind the Art Deco Angels.

We opened the door and found a nowhere age looking woman in a short blond cut holding up a guestbook. "Can we sit in your air conditioning for a minute?" "Of course, drinking fountain is right there. Would you mind signing our guest book?" We found out she was born and raised in Boulder City and that it was a downright big town in its own right, now, positively booming actually because not everyone could afford to live in Las Vegas and even if you could afford it who wants to live with the heathens and the rif-raff. and after the bypass gets built the traffic will be better... "You girls should stay for the show" "What kind of show?" "A show, well, a presentation about the Coloradao River Basin." If my sister had been fully recovered I'm sure we would have left because  presentation sounds dryer than the desert air, but we thought waiting for the show would buy us some more AC time...

"You can go in now"

We should have known by the light wood doors and the tan speckle floors and the green wall accents and the metal clock and the WPA letters and the silvery drinking fountain, that this would be a presentation that we would want to see.  Why didn't she just say DIORAMA?

When the doors opened to reveal the sweet Colorado River Basin diorama, it was like a little child angel had blown a cool kiss from Santa's workshop in the North over our heat woes. How precious it looked. A real live diorama with folding wood theater seats for undistracted viewing!

The presentation begins when the lights go off and a familiar deep voice explains all the towns and functions and statistics of the Colorado River Basin. "The Colorado River and its tributaries drain over such and such gallons of such and such..." As he says each name "Salton City" "Lake Mead" "Glen Canyon" the sections of the diorama light up and you think about how the river and the west and how you lived in Los Angeles and how lovely it all is and how lovely this presentation would be if you were back in old recreational desert holiday time in a shirtdress and pill box hat and had taken the side trip from the Sands with your rat packer wanna-be newlywed husband. DIORAMA power forever!

American PassThyme

Darlings. I'm back in the land of lost sun. And. I have Road Head. And as I just told Miss Amy C, Road Head is not something you give but something you get after a long road trip. The condition worsens if you have to steel your focus on the highway in front of you for hundreds of miles in nervous anticipation of a black ice sighting.

I couldn't remember if I heard the Weather Channel reporter correctly or not this morning. The in-room coffee maker and housekeeping door knocks were so loud -- all I heard was black ice and I-65. Of course, I-65 runs from Mobile, Alabama to Gary, IN, and I was situated right smack dollop in the middle, so the ice could have been anywhere within a eight hundred and eighty mile radius. Very tough on the eyes - especially after dark.

Any hotel, no matter how many of those CB2 vases and throw pillows were included in the redesign, will lose it's travel luster when it becomes a shelter for the displaced. You should have seen the Free Hot Breakfast nook at the Hampton Inn this morning. The ice storm had put people out for several days so there had been plenty of time for a social structure to emerge well before I got there to collect my mini yoplait. Check out the single moms wearing PTA meeting clothes and orange lipstick hoping to run into a potential daddy for one of their little kids who are busy licking hotel chair legs and smashing bananas with a fork into the personal waffle maker. These kids! Climbing all over the lobby sofas, crusting them up with their cereal crud, salvia, and scabs. And oh! The pajamas they put the rugmonsters in, they look like way too much like flimsy floral-patterned long johns. What happened to underoos? At least we tried to look like super heros in my day.

But I was being cross because I slept in and lost some museum time and knew that it was going to take extra long to drive home while avoiding black ice.

I was outside of The Louisville Slugger Museum & Factory taking even more photos of all the ice (to later annoy friends and family and bog down my flickr account) when I stumbled across a soft grey-haired lady snapping pics of the very same tree. She was tickled pink that I was out taking pictures of the ice because she was doing the same thing and her husband was at a school board meeting conference and the other wives all said it was too cold to go out to the the museums and the ImaX so here she is alone. But she didn't care, wives of school board members be damned, her name is Violet, she put her 2005 AA battery loaded Canon in my hand and walked under the giant bat, turned and smiled and I snapped. Your turn she said.

We live bout three hours southeast of here. Are you traveling alone? Yes. Oh my. I like to see everything I can. Me too. What do your parents think? They are very used to it. Do you travel after dark? Not much any more. I can go anywhere as long as it's before dark. My new creed.

 

We took the museum and factory tour together, sat next to each other during the short film narrated by James Earl Jones, even turned to each other in amazement when JEJ told us "the pitch last less than one third of a second..." I learned about her daughter and her daughters daughters and the wedding and the trips to Alaska - and I told her about the ice and the Hampton Inn and Memphis - all this as we passed A-Rod's bat back and forth. An excellent forty minute friendship, I do say by the end of the whole thing I was disappointed she just left, saying, it was nice to meet you Sara (albeit in that radical south south KanTucky accent). But I wanted to get our names engraved on a black bat: Violet and Sara, Never After Dark.