We started the day with a hankering for some southern breakfast — so we took a sojourn into the engine of the confederacy at Raleigh. It was a local hipster coffee shoppe, with outdoor seating — hipster lights swinging from the establishment — hipsters with tattoos manning the tables outside. Every two or three tables was an elderly couple, or middled age, all dressed finely and speaking with a slow drawl and a gentile southern cadence. I ordered a fucking Italian sandwich with a cappuccino — savaged it down my gullet — and then got the hell out of there. Before I left, however, my wild coyote picked a fight with a baby pitbull who was also there enjoying a hard bone and the southern climes. My coyote, it should be noted, is extremely anti-social.
We took a local road on our way back, the Jefferson Davis highway — a mangled zig zag of hard molasses broken up by a rural landscape dotted with trailer homes and small ranches. As I sped down this road in my fancy Mercedes truck, sticking out like a soar Yankee thumb, I was certain a Tom Sawyer type lad would jump out barefooted with dirt on his face to throw a turnip at me as I traveled heavily throughout the area. I was disappointed to find ZERO confederate flags, just a collection of front lawn junk yards and American flags idling in the dead humid heat of dust and boredom.
I quickly sped up and through Virginia — again on local roads — a local highway shaped like a madman was twisting sweet water taffy — incongruent with the town planning. Roads split in two suddenly. Small houses were dotted across high velocity roads with old broken down gas station throw rugs splayed out across 19th century shacks. I passed a place of no significance called Pepper Mill Creek and it stood out only because the area reminded me of something that might’ve been ground out of a pepper mill by God and forgotten for a thousand years.
We decided to take a pit stop at Fredericksburg — probably my favorite southern city — the apex of southern pride and accomplishment — the place that defined what it meant to repel northern aggression and massacre thousands at a ridiculous wall because of idiotic union command. We parked right next to George Washington’s mother’s house and my coyote took a dump right in front of it. It’s a lowly shack, likely domiciled by an insane woman and I didn’t want to pick up the excrement — but my wife insisted upon it. I grabbed an iced latte at Hyperion Espresso — the only coffee house of note there and enjoyed the views, interrupted only every 2 minutes by my coyote who attempted to lunge at people on motorcycles or random strangers passing by. Whenever a dog happened to sojourn our way — the coyote lost her mind and acted like she was infected with the rabies.
My wife and kids went to an Italian restaurant, but I wanted to roam the streets and ended up in an olde bookstore, small, but comfortable — decorated with walls of books, English styled furniture and old rugs atop of very ancient wood that creaked and bowed and felt like I’d step on the wrong piece that would soon give way and drop me into a cob-webbed cellar. I spied a Hemingway book about his letters, opened the book midway and saw one addressed to F. Scott Fitzgerald — instantly closed it and then bought it.
I then joined my family at the Italian restaurant — but before that I was accosted by immoral youths acting terribly — and then I saw run down southern men with thick accents smoking cigarettes and baking in the sun without cause.
At the eatery I sat next to a cosmopolitan couple who harangued the waitress over their wine selection.
“Should we get the Il Morono white or perhaps the Vincenziorioao rose?”
“I don’t know hon — what do you think? So hard.”
“Excuse me, waitress — we’re not sure if we want the Igliomrani Chardonnay — we were just at the Vineyard — so good — but not that much of a fan.”
“Oh, ok — but we do have the Rose too, if you want to try.”
“What do you think hon?”
“Not sure. I don’t think I want to take the risk. Let’s just get the Chianti by Gaboulianai”
“Perfect, right, ok.”
“Thanks hon. Perfect. So good. We learned so much in Italy — so epic.”
I wanted to grab a knife and execute both of them — but my wife kept looking at me in a nervous way as if to tell me “don’t you dare pick up that knife and kill those people in front of your children”, so I refrained.
The rest of the trip was mostly uneventful — I-95 droning action with bad music and nonsensical chatter, interrupted by wonderful songs that you hear only once every 10 years or so and incoherent laughter and quick stops for snacks and urination disposal.
I’m back now — ready to drive a dagger into the heart of this bull market — but fully prepared and positioned for a continuation of this glorious bull market.If you enjoy the content at iBankCoin, please follow us on Twitter