WRITER WEATHERS SUMMER HEAT

With California behind me, I drove to "Delta" Dave Handelman's house anticipating the $20 bottle of wine he said had my name on it. He had just returned from San Antonio and we were going to review new material for the Doc Scully Blues Band. His son wanted to unleash his new licks for Langston Hughes' I Went Down to the River.

Dave's truck wasn't in the driveway. I knocked at the door, but his wife wasn't answering. I stood in the front yard for five minutes but abandoned my vigil. I didn't feel like returning home. Alcohol had lured me from my air-conditioned cave and alcohol was tempting me to forge onward.

I walked into Cobbleheads via the deck. There were more ducks waddling between the tables than patrons. The ducks are more obnoxious than drunks screaming in your ear. I entered the bar and cigarette smoke engulfed me.

I'm an unapologetic hypocrite. I like all vices, cigarettes after a good meal with wine and beer at the top of the list, but when I'm not in the mood, cigarettes repulse me. I ordered a beer. The glass wasn't chilled and the draft wasn't cold. I paid and left.

I headed to the Vermillion. The joint never disappoints me. I downed three frosty mugs with an order of nachos. The place was quiet, which was fine with me. I watched sports while the juke box pumped out popular sounds. I was home by nine.

"Where did you go?" asked the chick who had been staying the last couple of days.

"I stopped at Cobbleheads, but the beer was warm, so I went to the Vermillion," I answered.

"Did you see anyone?" she continued with her interrogation.

"All is quiet on the Brownsville front," I replied.