Howdy y'all. I just got back home after a wild adventure in the wild west. I was driving down that long, lonesome freeway, singing the blues along with the radio in the proverbial middle of nowhere--fields of fodder as far as the Fudd could follow--when the "check engine" light started blazing brightly in the darkness. Holy smokes! Should I pull over instantly--and me without a cell phone?--or should I take a chance and look for a call box or a town or something? An exit loomed. I rolled off the freeway just as the engine stalled and plumes of smoke rose dramatically from under the hood.

I found a phone booth and called a soothing voice at Roadside Assistance who in turn called a tow truck. What just happened to be driving off the same exit in search of a gas station but the very tow truck. The guy loaded up the smoking car and took us both to a garage.

The folks at the garage worked valiantly to save its life, but ultimately pronounced the car dead.

The owner offered me a lift home. That sounds like a nice gesture, right? "A lift home" entailed a three-hour drive! He absolutely insisted upon doing it, and waxed eloquent on the laws of karma, how all men are brothers, and the necessity of unconditional love for all human beings for the entire three hours. He treated the whole drive as a big, exciting adventure. He brushed away my many expressions of gratitude.

I feel stupified and stupid, and as if I have been in someone else's movie.

Please pass the coffee and a cinnamon roll.

Elmer