Evening's lookin' up. Hand-delivered latkes for dinner, courtesy of @lshankman – It pays to be a 1/4 Jewish commune.
This guy. And wine, provolone, and salami for dinner, with a side of Gilmore Girls. Cure for a Monday.
Drink, book, sun, crashing waves. Happy place achieved. (Helped along by ultra weird resort Thanksgiving performance of a guy dressed in a turkey suit running down the beach from a Mayan Indian with a musket.)
Not sure why I've tied myself down on Thanksgiving in the past. This is not sucking and I am feeling very thankful.
This is my Dad, Cecil Ray Palmer, about 1945 at home at 110 East Henry Street, Savannah, with 1939 Mercury. Dad and my grandmother (born in Clyde, Ga, which is now Ft. Stewart), both pronounced words ending in "oil" as "awl." So, he changes the "awl" in the car, wraps leftovers up in "tin fawl," (not aluminum foil), and goes to a "srimp bawl" (a shrimp boil.) Yep, no "h" in his pronunciation of shrimp. #bshowwetalk