Brutal California Winter
Comes a time for a retired man to do the right thing and take a stand. The yakking heads and climate-denying, war-glory news stooges can work (pardon my language) all they want. I, however, am going on vacation.
"Vacation from what?" you may ask, temporarily overcome by the silliness of your undertakings. Goodness. Must I explain?
A great, massive, hunkering cloud of stress must be dodged when you have deliberately dedicated the remainder of your days to practicing the fine art of relaxation. It's a skill few have mastered.
Consider breakfast, for example. Not breakfast in general, not commonplace, scurry-off-to-the-office breakfast. But REAL breakfast, prepared and eaten reverently at the same pace Sun rises and Earth spins and Cat stretches. This cannot be executed properly in the oh God, Brittany has a fever, what are we going to do, kid-sitter panic sort of state of mindlessness experienced by the work (sorry) zombies. No, it must be done with the clarity that only premium grade leisure can provide.
The problem, if you want to call it one, that arises when a nobly retired man has learned to thoroughly dominate the copasetic production of breakfast is variety of setting. You can eat it at the kitchen table, you can eat it on the porch, or you can eat it at the table in the yard just past the porch. That's pretty much it. Unless, of course, you choose to pay someone else to fix the vittles.
So all of this, as you may have guessed, is a long way of saying I need a vacation so I can eat breakfast in some cool new places.
Like The Wild Horse Cafe in King City CA by golly. Today I enjoyed the top sirloin and eggs special with a bottomless cup of java for 10 point 85 dollars. This hearty repast fueled my journey on the Dream Machine from Paso Robles CA to Morro Bay CA. I needed all of that and an 8 ounce bag of pistachios to grind over the Coast Range rollercoaster on Hwy 46 and Old Creek Road. One serpentine stretch with an 8% grade coming down toward Cayucos required almost constant braking to avoid the dreaded oh no I'm flying off the mountain all the way to the Spacific Ocean scenic biker splat. Not copasetic. I squeezed just fine, but I'm single-finger typing this evening on my Smartyphone despite severe hand cramps. When the cramps start to get a little too annoying, I simply remind my hands that they, too, are on vacation and they really should relax.
Morro Bay State Park (right next to the recently decommissioned Diablo Canyon Nuclear Power Plant that the federal dunderheads built right on an earthquake fault!) has an aromatic hiker/biker camp in the eucalyptus trees which will serve as home for tonight. I can't wait to wake up tomorrow to see what Mother Whimsy has in store for breakfast. It's gonna be great.
Peace, Love, and Winter in the Land of Gold,