A Mid-Atlantic Night’s Dream

What Tanggor Did On His Autumn Vacation

(An Immature and Socially Inept Misanthrope attends the IOTW Report Mid-Atlantic Gathering)

It was a dark and stormy night.
Call me Ishmael.

OK, maybe not. But it was nighttime, and therefore dark. And there was sort of a storm (in my mind) as I was about to travel on the morrow to an actual social event with real people. Shudder. (And don’t call me Ishmael. Or Shirley, for that matter.)

The very noble PHenry had stepped up and agreed to plan, organize, and schedule the Mid-Atlantic gathering, and I, in a momentary fit of utter insanity, had indicated a willingness to attend. Ah well. It happens sometimes. Generally I manage to recover and wiggle out of such things before having to really go. I am a Jedi Master of excuses. No worries.
However, I made a critical and tactical error which would seal my fate forever. I informed She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed of my intention to attend. On a weekend, no less.

She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed smiled sweetly at me (as she is known to do) and gave her blessing. I should have sensed the danger right then; But no.
Foolishly emboldened, I asked She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed (which, in casual conversation, can be shortened to “Yes Dear”) if she would like to go with me. As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt it. That feeling when you’re sure there’s one more step on the stairs, but there isn’t. The feeling when the sure and certain grip on the circular saw isn’t so sure and certain anymore.

Wheels began to turn, and before long a two day excursion was planned, to include visits to a Richmond museum and amBotanical Garden. And where was the Jedi Master? Heh. She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed simply waved her delicate hand and airily said “These aren’t the excuses you’re looking for”. Sigh.

After much excursioning, with Faberge Eggs, ancient artifacts (the Roman sarcophagus was kinda cool), flowers and butterflies, the moment arrived. Saturday night. New people. Would they be loonies? Have three heads? Would they mercilessly mock our hero (yeah, that’s me – when you’re writing the story, you get to puff yourself up with Hero status.
It’s a Federal Law. Pretty sure anyway.).

What I found, despite my fears, were kindred spirits. None of them had three heads, and none were loonies (maybe I
was the loony). Three curmudgeonly guys and four lovely, intelligent conservative ladies.

It only took one good shot of Scotch to ease my anti-social tendencies (generally it takes 3 or more, and even then it’s an iffy thing).
We shared drinks, and stories, and many laughs. They were compatriots I didn’t know I had. Most amazingly, they put up with me, and did not seem offended at the stupid stuff I often say.

PHenry brought it all together and us as well. A natural leader with a keen intellect, he made us all comfortable, provided clever disguises for our group picture, and also bought the first round of booze (this is a very endearing quality).

With great patience, he even re-told the story of the Botanical-Wedding-That-Wasn’t, since I missed it the first time.

Mrs. PHenry, whose site name I forgot as soon as I knew her real name (which I will not share here), has a gaze that pierces right through you, with awareness and insight to match. She is as lovely as her real name, which was aptly chosen, and has genuine warmth you rarely find. I was regrettably vulgar in her presence, and she didn’t smack me down although she probably should have (I recommend a 2×4 studded with nails, and a good home plate wind-up).

Beachmom, who traveled a great distance to attend, is delightful. Her smile and bubbly aura could grace glamour magazine covers, and her infectious laugh makes you want to tell jokes all day just to keep her laughing. Regardless of the aura, I suspect Beachmom is fully capable of placing a double-tap to the head, should the situation require it.

Rounding out the ladies contingent was an amber haired beauty who actually does not frequent IOTW Report, but is friendly with the PHenrys, and of the same ideological bent as the rest of us. You may think of her as Lucy, which is not her real name and means nothing unless you were there. A dear person of strong faith, and very kind.

Last, but certainly not least, is Crackerbaby, truly a Man’s Man. A fellow Clansman (although not the same Clan), and a guy who just might be able to drink me under the floor that’s under the table. That theory was not tested during the evening, lucky for me.

Crackerbaby regaled us with many a fine tale. Unfortunately, I rudely interrupted one later in the evening when the story included the technical term “bugnuts”. I got hung up right there, marveling with joy at the new
term which, to me, seems to have universal applications (yes, I have all the maturity of a 4th grader).

Alas, this prevented me from finding out what ultimately happened in Kansas on that dreadfully hot summer.
Bugnuts.

Not mentioned above is, of course, She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, my love and my wife. Of her I shall only say she is the one person I know who can simply walk into a room and make me smile. Every time.

I don’t know if I’ll ever see any of these folks again, but I feel honored to have done so, at least this once.

In the final analysis, they were all fine, patriotic Americans.
And you can’t go no better than that.
Tanggor