Onion rings
And football on Saturday.
Onion rings… Who’s the bellend who decided they were a good idea? A useless exploration in deep-fried excess.
It hasn’t stopped the chefs at this Philly sports bar from adding them to an otherwise tasty brisket sandwich. They added two big and greasy rings to one side of the bun and used melted cheese as the glue to keep them in place.
Once upon a time, they’d burn people at the stake for such culinary crimes.
Good thing the hops of this pale ale are kicking in. Another sip reduces the firey thoughts to a simmer.
I breathe in.
Then out.
Then in again.
I sneak another look at myself in my new Phillies hat. The red is gorgeous. Bright and stubborn like a stop light. I like to think it was a freebie but really it was bait. A savvy salesperson read my blog and found a pretty good way to get me to say yes to hearing their pitch.
A text from Zane breaks my train of thought. He’s asking for new music recommendations. Little does he know I’m enjoying my annual Fleetwood Mac obsession so I don’t have anything new to share. But how can you go wrong with Seven Wonders? In fact, that’s the track for this post. Stop reading, click the link, and return to finish. I’ll wait.
While I’m waiting, a thought: why do people live in the northeast? These winters are miserable. We’re merely killing time in this kid-friendly bar when you’d be a daft prick to ever think there’s ever enough time on this planet to kill.
I need the sun, sand, and breathless heat.
Maala howls at me from atop the playground pirate ship. She’s exhibiting all the behaviors of a tired child. But so am I, dammit. Papa Stormon needs a nap!
I’ll take the check, please. I turn to Mel and signal with my eyes the following: I’ll corral the kid, and you finish the mimosa.
A good deal cause I know when I get home I’m angling straight for the couch and I’ll be rendered useless for the afternoon—playoff football starts in two hours. The birds play in four.
Time to wrap up this hoopla.
Fly eagles fly.