Buffalo Jack’s, Destin. The greatest thing about this picture is that it’s take two. Originally, Monsieur Buffalo did not have the hat. The nimble busboy, seeing I was taking a picture, insisted on leaping onto the counter and restoring the hat (which is propped to ideal jauntiness with a concealed cup). One of his coworkers had forgotten her Santa hat the day before, he explained, so they liberated the buffalo’s hat to conceal her unfestive shame.
My mom pointed out how bizarre this is, beyond the hot truth this baby is clearly laying out for you. Why the devil would you print your baby’s picture on a bib, thus ensuring that said baby will dribble food and shit all over a picture of herself? What point are you trying to make?
These just hang out in the middle of the gas station, across the street from the beach. Their colors make my teeth hurt.
I saw exactly two cowboy hats in IAH the second time through – which was, gloriously, a mere two hours. I’m going to do everything I can to avoid Houston for a while, having spent upwards of 10 hours there inside of a single week. Bleh.
I proposed a day trip to my family, but I realized I was more interested in hanging out with them and the dogs and just cooking and playing cards, so we didn’t go to Apalachicola or Seaside or anywhere else new or unvisited for some years. I do have one more panhandle post on its way, but this ended up largely being a trip whose contents were outside of the scope of this blog.
And, really, I think that means I did it right.