Wednesday, September 21, 2011


Fredericksburg, Virginia

[My camera was broken here but there wasn't anything to take pictures of anyway.]

Fredericksburg isn't far at a little over fifty miles, but I feel tired.  I have a large breakfast of a portobello omelet, rosemary taters, fruit, and giant biscuits with pork gravy.  It rules and I talk with the waiter about my syrup consumption from an earlier visit.  I run into one of the guys from the night before and say hey, but keep walking.  Another guy hollers at me and I realize the friend who had given me food was there too.  I walk back and talk with them some.  I feel like an asshole for not having done it for the one I was less familiar with.

I get to Fredericksburg and am overly optimistic about finding my scene here.  I've been spoiled along this trip.  I find the only place I can ask about dive bars.  It's a small, semi-trendy thrift shop dealing old nintendo games and t-shirts.  I consider myself learned in t-shirt style and lore and think their collection impressive.  I imagine the group interested in this town isn't big enough to snatch the choice shirts quick enough.  I bemoan my circumstance.  In this Shangri-La of shirts I can take nothing from it.

I meet my host, Berricks Grudef.  He's a young guy working for the Department of Defense.  He diets with nicotine patches.  He's a big dude and we talk about rugby over beers.  He tells me lurid accounts of the girls he's boned in the room we sit.  I don't want to be rude, so we continue talking about it.  I don't know if it wasn't entirely sober or just didn't care, but the conversation wasn't that off putting or bizarre to make me uncomfortable.  I thought it weird enough to write about, though, so I'm not quite sure how I really do feel about it.  Berricks was nice, anyway.

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