Lost $50 ... Found $500,000

An exciting day to say the least. Linda and John decided to join us for a trip to the Pensacola Greyhound Track for an afternoon of watching those skinny, long legged canines streak around the track. Their reputation as gamblers was well known so we were anxious to gain any little tid-bit of knowledge they might chose to share.

We pulled up to the almost civil war era track and ventured inside. It's such a treat to visit places that are still trying to get into the local historical registry. Having not changed a thing since the war, including the carpet and furniture, it was still a treat to see Jeff Davis' 1st cousin was still working one the paramutel windows. She was such a sweetie. Her attitude matched her beauty. The track itself was purposely kept on a pre-war footing with little or no water being wasted on plant material or fresh paint being used. You might be kind in saying it needed a little fixing up.

The dogs however were perky, especially after depositing one body fluid or another trackside, and ready to race. Sharon and I, though rank amatuers, had learned a thing or two from our track visit in Texas and soon began handicapping the dogs in order to place our bets. Silly notion, as it turns out, as the track savvy B's soon showed us what picking dogs was all about. Their methods, which are far too complicated to pass along here, were uncanningly accurate and, as the afternoon wore on, created a growing fortune. With our egos and bankroll now neutered by these track savvy winter Alabamians, Sharon and I swallowed our $50 loss and headed off to dinner.

Our trusty Garmin Nuvi GPS got us quickly to Pensacola's McQuire's Irish Pub; though via a slightly unorthodox route, we got there just the same. The landmark eatery was already filling up but we went inside anyway and I quickly figured out where I could recoup our $50 racing loss and fill our bank account with at least another $500,000. Stapled, tacked, and nailed to every square inch of every ceiling in every room of the restuarant, were $1 dollar bills. Like an upside down thatched roof, the bills fluttered gently wherever someone walked by. Visually interesting ... but oh so tempting.

I figured if I could ever get someone to look away, I could begin stuffing my pockets with all the Washingtons and any future financial issues would be solved. The signs said there was more than a half of million dollars affixed within the resturant, a local fixture since 1996 and apparently all meant as gestures to assure good luck. Most had names and dates written on them comemorating the previous owners visit. I'd been in a restuarant near Hilton Head that had a similar theme but no way near the extent of McQuires. John and Linda added their fifth donation and we our first.

Since our table wasn't quite ready, we found our way into the bar and the drink wench took our order but noted that it was still happy hour; or buy one get one free. We all agreed that bloody mary's were in order so she wrote it down and within a few minutes returned with our drinks. Working her way through the SRO crowd, she had a large tray filled with our celery stuffed, olive stabbed concoctions and began passing out the drinks; the happy hour 'thing' sunk in as she was handing each of us two drinks. Not quite sharp enough to order just two drinks (two paid for, two free) we each ordered one, but actually getting two. As they advertise ... feasting, imbibing and debauchery is their mantra so when in Rome... well you get the idea so we didn't send the extras back. Starting out the evening, with empty stomachs and two drinks each, the chance of being unruly and loud were high.

Our table became ready and we worked our way through the resturant being seated in a rather small room with only one other small group. We purused the menu and were asked if we were ready for another round of drinks. Gee wizz, we thought. Was it still happy hour? The answer was yes ...so another eight drinks made their way to our table. We all ordered a fish dish and thankfully it arrived quickly as we all needed something to help absorb the booze. Most of the juice had sunk in but some made its way to the bobblehead in each of us and the evening reached its pinnacle with Sharon trying to intice the bagpipe player into divulging exactly what was under that tartan kilt. Obviously not the first time the old piper had this question posed, he quickly moved on after playing a short strain of the funeral fugue in honor of John's recent birthday. As laughter is a universal cure for most of what ails us, the evenings' fun not only sobered us up but also made us all apprecate our good fortune and good friendship even more.
Having way too much fun again and still livin' the dream.