Better is better

One of my students last week said something rather profound, I think. She was trying to remember something we had said at our 5th grade retreat about a month ago about working together. "Working together is always better" was the phrase we had repeated during my session of the retreat about teamwork, but as she struggled to remember it, what came out of her mouth instead was, "Better is better." And ain't that the truth.

So what's better than going home at 11:30 on a Saturday night after a day of watching the Angels clinch the American League West, eating at Pick Up Stix, and paying $9.75 to see the now and then ha-ha funny Shaun of the Dead? How about driving to my landlady's house to drop off my rent and then aimlessly driving on the 84 west, almost hitting a deer, crawling through dense fog, and stopping at Apple Jack's in La Honda?

So yeah, I was chillin' with Mark (yes ladies, I'm still single; don't miss this opportunity!). I had a full tank of gas and we had nowhere to be, so driving the long and winding road that is the 84 late at night seemed like a good diversion. It gave me a chance to test out my high beams, my car's handling, and my night vision. 2 out of 3 ain't bad. Turns out I can't see large deer standing in the road. It took Mark's cry of, "It's a deer!!!" for me to notice a 5 foot tall deer standing smack dab in the middle of the road. As we drove by it, I swear I could have stuck my arm out the window and given it a pat on the head. But I did not. That's how close it was.

Our adrenaline levels now higher and my speed now lower, we continued to proceed west (a la Horace Greeley?) and finally ran into civilization in the form of a dive bar named Apple Jack's. Apple Jack's, for me, fit my stereotype of what a real bar should be. It's got its host of regulars, it's got shady characters sitting by themselves in the corners, it's got a pool table, a live band, a rowdy group of folks chewin' the fat outside. Behind the bar, hanging by push pins, are bills of international currency signed by, one would expect, patrons of the past, with an assortment of firemen's helmets. Sitting down on a bar stool, I drank my whiskey sour (thanks Mario) which was mostly whiskey, not so much sour, and took it all in.

The crisp, foresty air, already pregnant with winter, cleared our heads as we left. AJ's was a good ol' time. Maybe we'll be back.