Chico, you fucker.

This place, where the in-laws are staying? There's a ledge on the top of the cabinetry in the kitchen, and Chico, my mother-in-law's cat, has figured out how to get up there.

He likes to lay there, and watch the hoomins go by.

It'll give you a hell of a start, though, to look up and see the little booger hanging there like a vulture, looking at you.

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Sunday I drove down here, of course, and I snapped a few photos as I drove.

Trish, do you remember this lovely pit? That's supposed to be the sign for Waffle House, off I-95, but I was driving and didn't want to run into someone while concentrating on the photo. I sort of hung the camera out the window, hoped, and pushed the button.

Then we got on the highway itself, and it looked like this:

For four hours. (It's an hour to I-95 the way we drive it, so all in all, a five hour trip with nothing but trees, except for the short bip through Jacksonville.)



These are our current digs, or at least this is the area of the current digs. It's a nice, gated community, all over-designed and self-contained. Some say they're a blight on the landscape. Some say they're a wonderful alternative to down-at-the-heels little beach communities. I see both sides of the argument, and while I think these are nice places, and certainly well maintained, I've also got a sentimental fondness for shabby little beach shacks. Either way, it's nice here, and the in-laws are happy here, and really, that's what matters.

For now, I leave you with sunrise photos, taken this morning at the unholy hour of six-thirty AM. The Goob's excited as all hell and has been getting me up at five-thirty every day.