Rainy Sunday

Thus far, letting my blogging cadence slip has not resulted in an efflorescence of inspiration for things to write. In fact, I keep up coming up with ideas, little things to write about it, but then I think that it sounds more and more like the blog is devolving into Andy Rooney territory, where some old guy sits around and whines about aging. But then, I'm turning 58 in a couple of months, so what the hell do you expect?

Boca Raton was about what one would expect. The weather was lovely -- which is why I had chosen to go there in February, after all. There were palm trees, cute little bungalows mixed in with more lavish residences, more recent condos which were executed in keeping with a classic Florida groove: I would never have guessed they were brand spanking new. When I got checked in to my hotel, which was about a mile in from the beach, I changed into shorts and proceeded directly to the ocean, where some bad-assed 20-something young Hispanic women were getting ready to go surfing. Then I hustled back for some seafood (I ended up with some fried belly clams, a treat I hadn't had for several summers because of little time spent in New England and them disappearing from the menu of the Nantucket Grill, which had never been able to keep them in stock since the pandemic started). That was a pleasant surprise.

Over the next couple of days out on the streets I saw a wide range of cars one doesn't see much of in NC: a Maybach sedan, an Aston-Martin convertible and also a Maserati one, a Lucid. Which was kind of fun but honestly I'm just as happy to not see that stuff. It's kind of like watching TV ads for cheap pizza in which they get the stringiness of melted mozzarella just right when someone lifts a slice out of a pie but you know it's crap you don't need.