Good Morning Gentle Readers,
The House Blond is convinced that St Vals is a legal holiday and no amount of rational discourse can dissuade her of that notion. Me & Ms TWC snuck out Friday for an early Valentine's dinner because in Californicate you can't get there from here and you definitely want to beat the crowds.
Commercialization and overexposure aside, the success of St Vals is largely because it evolved on its own without any fargin' government sanction, which is how these things ought to work. Case in point: we're halfway through a CONgresionally mandated three-day weekend called President's Day Weekend, the sole purpose of which is to clog up the highways with motorhomes and toy haulers.
My friend Akira hobbled around with a pronounced limp. Localized urban myth attributed the limp to injuries suffered while being shot down piloting a Japanese Zero during the Big War. In reality, he came out of the camps after the Big War and headed straight to Chicago.
He'd made enough cash running a pool table concession (twenty five cents a game) and hawking illicit cigarettes to buy a brand new Ford. He once confided, Mike, you know how much Japanese love to smoke and cigarettes were hard to come by in camp.
The pool table was pilfered from a lodge near Yellowstone and the smokes he 'found' stored in a shed while deployed on a work crew Yellowstone.
The man was a wealth of captivating stories going back to pre-war Los Angeles and his years in the camps. I should have taken notes instead of consigning this fascinating stuff to my failing memory banks.
Arriving in post war Chicago, Ike found gainful employment as a mechanic at 2122 Clark Street, where Capone's bullet holes were still in the wall. The building was razed long ago and George Patey's bricks, which were salvaged from the building and sold for a grand apiece, are reputed to bring nothing but bad luck to the holder.
Hope your St Valentine's Day is better than Moran's boys was.