(above picture is a picture of a picture for which I wouldn’t spend $20 to purchase, because I am the cheapest of persons who know who their fathers are)
I awoke this morning, ate, and decided to check out the U. of Wisconsin arboretum, because, like Ric Flair, I dig on nature. Spent time hiking trails, traipsing across wetlands on a wooden bridge, checking out effigy Indian mounds, staring down wild turkeys, and allowing my body to recover from the heaps of abuse I’d given it the previous evening. The latter activity was accompanied by numerous waves of noxious gas. Hence the fallen tree leaves.
Shortly after noon, I headed east towards Milwaukee for the Miller brewery tour. Tour was enjoyable, and I got 3 free beers at its conclusion, which was preceded by a stop in Frederick Miller’s special beer holding cave and the guide’s saying, “So, our tour is over, and, it seems I forgot my watch today. Can anyone tell me what time it is?”
To which all of us shouted from the figurative rooftops, “IT’S MILLER TIME!” Contrived or not, most of us found it to be damned glorious.
We were shepherded into the Miller Inn for our free samples of Miller Lite, Miller High Life, and Leinenkugel’s about 3:30pm. I was seated at a table with two German men, two college-age guys, and two college-age girls. During the Miller Lite, no one spoke to one another. The pairs chatted amongst themselves; I read blogs on my blackberry.
Then the High Life came, along with the pictures of ourselves for which the brewery wanted $20. I clandestinely (I thought) pulled out my camera to take a picture of the picture; the pair of guys on my left and pair of girls on my right started laughing and then did the same with their cellphones. A few seconds later, we were BFFs. The two guys were in the Navy together and were meeting up after a deployment to see the Packers. The two girls were sisters who live in separate cities but met up for a weekend of debauchery. Having participated in at least 50 mediations over the last few years, I naturally suggested the four of them swap cell numbers and meet up to spend the evening together. They did. The guys privately thanked me afterward for my service.
We were putting away the Leinenkugel’s when the server told us we needed to get out. I then looked at my watch: 4:30pm. My flight left at 6; I had a rental car to return; I had no idea where the airport was in relation to the brewery. And did I mention that I had skipped lunch?
I searched for “airport” on my Garmin, and it pulled up a “General Mitchell” airport. I didn’t know if that was correct or not, so, while weaving through rush hour and scrolling through airport options, I called my retired pilot father to ask if that was, in fact, my airport. He confirmed that it was. The radio told me 43 South was to be avoided–big wreck ahead. I weaved; I drove on the shoulder; I went through some grass; I twittered; I used filthy profanity out loud. I made it to the airport at 5:15pm. Sprinted through concourse. Was approaching security when ran into one of my best friends since 1985, who crouched down to try to trip me, realizing I was in a big hurry when he spotted me from afar. Dick. Chatted for 30 seconds; plopped down on row 14 after embarking during “last call” for boarding. Still had my buzz.
Apologized for what I thought might be a discernible odor. The girl headed to a wedding at Virginia Beach sitting next to me made a face and offerred me some Trident.
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