Amburgers & Wootbeer

The Root Bear and MeI tried to get lost tonight after the village meeting let out. I just don’t have the radar, I guess. Either that, or my darling, beloved Ducati is mad at me for pooching and dumping at 80 mph in a completely boring curve yesterday (don’t worry, I’m not going to sell you for a new Suzuki SV650–that was just a mad fling). So I drove around trying to find roads more entangled than the new ivy I hope will be enveloping the house in a week or two. Every time I took a random turn, I came across a long, unbroken line of pavement disappearing into the sunset. Then I started aiming for hilly areas, copses, valleys and ravines. No luck. I always ended up on the grid again. So I went slow and just dug looking at houses and farms. The ones way off the beaten path are the best. The owners seem to live outside as comfortably and unselfconsciously as they do indoors. It’s one of the few times I wish I had quiet mufflers and could just fly like I used to in dreams and not disrupt anyone as they stand around in their underwear hanging up laundry or playing with a yard full of crazy dogs.

I ended up at the A&W in Hammond. The same A&W where we ended up the first time Scott pushed me off the bitch pad and into the driver’s seat.

I don’t know how the food was. It was Styrofoam in My Stomach, my only requirement for food unless Scott is making dinner.

I do know that I hate, hate, double-hate 50s music. I ate as fast as possible and not just because I was in the middle of nowhere and I couldn’t care less how revolting I looked tearing into my double Papa burger. I felt terrible leaving the Duc outside under the unerring scrutiny of the A&W root bear.

[The next morning: I kept walking by my monitor and seeing that picture and thinking it was Buddha alone in the night. I like that idea better. Root Buddha. Buddha Bear. Root Beer Buddha. Get to work.]

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