Spitball Army

Am strangely tired, and would dearly like to spend the night in my own bed, nice as that feather bed at the Charles was.

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Oh, I forgot to mention that Ron played his own version of Nick Lowe’s “Where’s My Everything?” during his set. He said he’d asked Lowe if he would sing it, Nick told him it wasn’t on his list this tour, so Ron asked if he could sing it.

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The subway system no longer takes tokens. They have taken the “branding” approach, as well, as the tickets that you buy from a machine (automation again, as at the airport) are called “Charlie,” as in “Charlie on the MTA!!” It took me awhile to figure out how to buy one. The lines to buy with cash were very, very long, and no one was purchasing at the credit card line, so I did that. It wasn’t easy, at first, all touch screen technology and menus, but I would be a pro a second time.

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I had only had a cup of Starbucks coffee and a muffin at the Memphis airport, so I was ready to eat! I’d been wanting that incredible steak sub made with sirloin tip that I used to treat myself to occasionally at Mr. Bartley’s Burger Cottage, so I went around the corner for that. Once there, I found out that…THEY NO LONGER HAVE IT ON THE MENU!!

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There are hardly any of those great used music or book stores left. I especially miss the one on Church Street, which is now a bunch of offices. Thank God there seems to still be no McDonald’s in the Square, but there are plenty of Starbucks storefronts, which is just plain odd in an area with sooooo many great small indie coffeehouses.

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Of course, there is always something that can go wrong, and my driver’s license expired on 9.1, so I was flagged as “SSSS” or “special screening.” It basically meant nothing more than being sent through a separate line and being paid extra special attention. That was OK by me.

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Swimming lessons in the morning were followed by an hour or two on the monkey bars, which were followed by splashing and diving at the pool which, in turn, led to swinging and teeter-tottering into the twilight hours. But for me, ultimately, the emphasis was on the happenings at the swimming pool. I was a water baby.

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Number of times my cat Ziggy screamed for his breakfast: 37 (which is 2,716 in Cat).

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The story’s author, Bonnie Tsui, chose to focus on four very different travel companies and the experiences they provide. Swim Art, for instance, leads swimmers to both salt-water (the San Francisco Bay around Alcatraz) and fresh-water (Lake Tahoe) locales in northern California, and the London-based SwimTrek offers a two-day swimming expedition down the Thames River that incorporates frequent rest stops at riverside pubs (for local color, I suppose, and “re-fueling”).

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As described, muttering under the breath would be less audible than breathing which, in most cases, would be about as loud as silence. If the mutterance were not meant to be heard, I imagine that the mutterer would merely think it.

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