In Which We Reunite

 

See, if you graduate from a high school (and I did, despite evidence to the contrary.  I really did.) and then subsequently you don't die, you run into the inevitable high school reunion.  Thus, my 50th one is coming up this weekend so I am returning to the swamps of my youth to celebrate it.

I have mixed emotions about the entire affair.  Diane von Austinburg knows me so well she is already making book that I will duck out and just not go.  If you want in on that action you'll have to take it up with her.  Another old friend warned me the reunion has all the ear markings of a hostage situation.  Her advice?  "Keep the motor running."

Pooh, I say.  I escaped the grimy little town I grew up in once, I can do it again.  Plus I'll be able to visit with my family while I'm there, including my niece Amber, who's always good for a laugh.  If that's not enough high times, I'm planning to visit the cemetery where my great-grandparents, grandparents, and sundry other relatives are enjoying being dead. 

Lastly there are the twin pillars of the real delight of visiting Houston, really good Mexican food and really good barbecue.  Now we're talking.

Guys with whom I wish I was reuniting:

The entirely too flexible Trevor Adams.

Do you remember the guy last week with the extreme farmer's tan?  Here he is with his suntan more under control.

Diego Reyes is also good for a laff.

Some joke about arrows, I don't know, fill in the blank.

Paulo Victor Melo and his Ass of Death

So serious.  Lighten up, baby.

The hotel where I'll be staying closes their pool at sundown.  Fatheads.  I love swimming at night.

And in conclusion, Letterio Amadeo