Fixin' life

A couple of weeks ago Dennis and I drove fourty-five minutes to a place alcoholic poets only write about in long sonnets. A place known only in decrepit texts, weathered and torn by time.

Unrequited burgerlove will lead you down inordinate paths. A treasure map marked with a giant red 'X' pinpointed our destination. It lay in wait for us in Waldorf Maryland.

Then, there it was -- like an oasis of my heart, there it was -- surrounded on all sides by the unclean. Roy Rogers, free-standing and unsoiled by progress. A choir of light beamed from the heavens.

In the beginning of this journey we had made a pact, my compatriot and I. To not stop believing, to never give up, to reach our "fixin' bar." We had embarked on a time-warp to the wild west of burgercraft and come from it, stronger. With a holster of fries on our hips and a cup full of pickles in hand, we mounted trusty steeds and rode off into the pastel sunset.

That day, burger patties rolled like tumble weed across the open plain. There really was nothing like it.