Ed. note: I had intended this post to be about the impending rapture. But, as Winston Churchill once famously remarked, shit changes.
I woke up to the smell of pancakes and cigars. And maybe a little bit of weed (thanks, Uncle Chet). The fresh mountain air, though, was the dominant force invading my nostrils that morning. I couldn't tell you the date, but I know it was a Saturday. At this time, Saturdays were the only day you could watch wrestling. Well, maybe Sunday if you were lucky enough to have cable. But at 11am Saturday, it was wrestling time. Or rasslin, depending on your location relative to the Mason-Dixon.
