Sunday began with a birthday celebration for My Dear Elderly Mother. I gifted her some handmade decorative serveware and a book in which I received published credit for contributions. Because, ultimately, everything is about me. I then treated her to a lunch at the Hueston Woods Lodge.
Oddly, we had the place mostly to ourselves.
Considering a portion of your hard-earned income is confiscated in order to fund this operation, you ought to take more advantage of its offerings. And if you should happen to make use of the park's marina service, you should tip generously the hard-working dock crew. In this last suggestion I may be just a bit biased.
From our fireside table we enjoyed a good resort-priced meal and an expansive view of frozen Acton Lake:
I paid cash for the lunch so that the IRS couldn't track my transaction and left a munificent tip.
Sunday was a bitterly cold, windy and rainy day here in southwest Ohio [read: God's Country] and so we were very happy to have a table next to a roaring fire.
We then retired upstairs to repose on a sumptuous leather couch where, again, we had just about the whole place to ourselves. Off-season, I suppose.
Before departing the Lodge I spied in a hallway just off the main lobby this installation (below), a little gem of yesteryear modernism:
Back at The Ranch it was birthday cake and ice cream before being joined by Lou and heading to Mr B's top secret bunker in an undisclosed location for his annual Super Bowl Party.... which he nearly forgot to organize. Luckily, the official sponsor of Mr B's social functions was ready, willing and eager to accept his last-minute carryout order:
When the general public places an order for carryout, they leave a name such as Killy or Romano. But when you are someone of global fame such as Sting or Bono Vox, the world identifies you differently, befitting your elevated status and unparalleled measure of esteem:
"Mr B."
That's right, it's a bag full of meatballs! Pizza, meatballs, potato chips. Mr B does Super Bowl parties the right way! None of the guacamole con queso and fair-trade veggie casserole junk with which you tortured your own Super Bowl party guests (I'm looking at you, Phat Daddy).
After stuffing our faces, we then gathered around the television to watch... not the interminable pre-game show hosted by Bob Costas.... but the MLB Network (yes, I had control of the remote) and their History of the World Series special. Hosted by Bob Costas. There was no escaping on Sunday from the Dick Clark of sports programming.
Inarguably, this was the highlight of the evening's PLARF broadcast.
Roll the credits!
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