THE PRE-FLIGHT instructions on my Southwest Airlines flights: “If you have children, or anyone acting like children…”
THE “POP!”-like reveal of Lake Tahoe right after we passed a 7,000-foot-high summit: “Oh,” you think, “everything below that horizon-wide row of hills is water.”
THE SPHINCTER-tightening drop-offs on both sides of a stretch of Hwy. 89 on the lake’s southwest edge. Be afraid, be very afraid…
BRATWURST TO die for. (Thank you, animals that made up that brat!)
ME MEETING my only uncle I have no memories of before now.
SNOW ON the beach. I kid not. Snow on the beach. (For, admittedly, about an hour after dawn Saturday, after which the sun came out and made things drier.)
ME DECIDING that the Tahoe Caesar’s “Roman Feast” buffet needs a slogan, and wondering what the Latin phrase is for “Everything but the vomiting!”
ME ONCE again telling myself, “Yep. Gambling’s REALLY not my thing.”
THE SIGNIFICANCE of obnoxious celebrities’ obnoxious autobiographies to Steph and Paul’s wedded bliss.
THE NEW bride and groom wearing Hooters t-shirts (when, um, Steph’s breasts are barely larger than my own).
FOOD, FOOD and more food. We celebrate with food. It’s what we do.
MORE PEACE Corps veterans in one place than maybe some countries get. (I’m kidding, Steph! Kidding!)
MY HERETOFORE-unknown (even to myself) ability to imitate Tom Jones, though that may have been the Scotch talking.
BRINGING UP old anti-drug PSAs, where I remembered the famous Rachael Leigh Cook commercial: “A tiny, curvy Goth girl destroyed a kitchen. It was hot.”
THE NOISE of hungry bears. As Lyle Lovett sang, “So meet a bear and take him on out to lunch with you/ Even though your friends may stop and stare…”
THE KNOWLEDGE that, yep, Steph and Paul are a good, good, good, good match. About which I said, “You can be married and still be a smart-aleck.”
I’ll tell more later.