That last one didn't have much to do with beards, did it? I'll feign ignorance and accept that maybe there's a good reason. Another Dylan reference. I wonder where it began, and when it will end. If you can't find the beginning, but can see where the path leads, does that mean that you are within the midst? Smarter people than your humble host can try to tackle that one. Instead, I'll mention my beard from this past growing-season. In a word? Uh, how about freakin' nice. That will do nicely. It's little brother, a wild and wide-eyed cowboy, settled in.
Portland could offer a permanence of the kind that the fetching Mrs. J likely dares not consider. Can I say it? Here goes. Year-round. I'm going to let that one settle in and allow it's fingers to gently massage my brain with the tender embrace of home.
I wonder if Mona Lisa really did have the highway blues. Is there an answer to that question? Who would know?
See you.
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