Oh, man. Yeah, Kathy and I try to do our little weekend adventures, but she took some vacay days to address home improvement.
Ya know how they say that there is no such thing as a $50 car repair? Daddy, that’s the hookup we are finding out with 3.5 bathrooms in the joint we’re living in right now. All brass fixtures, all da time. As mentioned, this house was built 2000, but looks 1983. I love a welder-chick-by-day, dancer-by-night as much as the next straight guy, but what a feeling. I am music now.
But we gots Bryan Brizendine to do the do; all bathrooms non tricked out to chrome. I call him BB King. That’s what I’m talking about.
But we got to the annual corn festival in neighboring Brentwood.
Little blind kitty. OK, I digress. Just read a piece in the local about a feral cat who, after several months of feeding, turned out to be sightless; a second feral kitty jumped up and became his guide, waiting patiently while the former finished his food, keeping him safe from the pool, etc. That’s why I get sucky. Man, I can get weepy reading newspaper Page 2.
So, Kath and I head down to Livermore to p/u our new Pinots from a vineyard way up north in Alexander Valley (where France’s Roderer Estate decided to establish their New World outpost), then hit CornFest.
Yeah, yeah: lots of merchants. Cheesy rides. And fire-roasted corn that may have seen five seconds of a safety match. Gotta love it. We could not believe how much fun we had at, and spent time at, the music bandshells. Rock dudes who looked to be about 5 years of age jamming (and they had a merch table (!), and banners exclaiming that they won a Los Angeles muso competition). But when we headed over to the West stage, we could not be prepared for complete strangers falling into line, kickin’ it synchronicity style, and mouthing the lyrics to, literally, boot.
Kickin’ it, or kitties; corn husks or the Conzelman Vineyard: festivals are us.
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