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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Well, Mrs. Robbo and I spent the better part of the day today running Youngest back out to summah camp for another two weeks, this time to serve a term on the kitchen crew.  I must admit that although I didn’t much care for having to leave so early this morning, the fog across the Potomac River Valley was very, very pretty.

The Gel and her fellows will spend the term waiting and bussing the tables full of ravenous campers.  Each of them is assigned a single cabin’s table, so sees the same dozen campers at each meal.  It appears that a certain bond grows up between them – certainly when the crew are named in recognition at the end-of-term ceremony, the responses from some of the cabins can be quite loud – which seems to be based at least in part on the server’s enthusiasm and theatricality.

To get into the spirit of the thing, Youngest went to some novelty shop this week and bought herself a Krusty Krab baseball hat, which she plans to wear on duty.  (That’s pretty typical of her brand of humor.)  I’ve an idea her table is going to be in for quite a ride.

Middle Gel did a turn on the kitchen crew a couple years ago.  She says it’s one of the hardest things she’s had to do but also one of the more rewarding.  (It doesn’t hurt that they get 80 hours of community service credit for it with their high school, too.)

We’ll see what Youngest thinks when we go to fetch her.

Oh, and speaking of running the Gel out to camp, just yesterday we received a polite notice from the Maryland State Police (complete with photograph) to the effect that they had clocked us going 76 mph in a 55 mph zone on I-270 the day we brought her back from her first term, and would we kindly cough up forty bucks.

I say “we”.  The truth of the matter is that I drove the Gel back alone myself that day, as Mrs. R was four states away visiting her parents.  However, since the title and registration for our Honda Juggernaut (which I was driving) are in her name, well, so far as the long arm of the law is concerned, she was the culprit.   Mrs. R is, as you might imagine, none to pleased with me about that.  (For the record, there is no loss of points or insurance fallout involved with this ticket.  They just want the money.  Had a more sinister penalty been involved, of course I would have taken the rap.  Eldest Gel, who is the closest thing there is to a Cromwellian Libertarian, demanded to know why I’m not facing jail time.)

I recognized the spot as soon as I came across it today – a work zone with a prominent warning of photo-enforcement.  They got me last time because I was out in the open, but this time I was able to wedge myself in beside a couple of semis and skootch through under cover.  (I didn’t slow down.  Only a suicidal lunatic would try to stick to 55 on I-270 when the traffic flow is going faster.  It’s one of the most beastly stretches of highway in the country, filled as it is with bat-shite crazy Murrland drivers.)

UPDATE:  I see where Professor Mondo, bringing his daughter up to UMD for grad school, has now seen first-hand why Ol’ Robbo applies the nearly-Homeric tag of “bat-shite crazy” to Murrland drivers every time he has occasion to comment upon them.


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August 2019