Only its bagels should remain closed

PAX is not closing.

That could be the blog post right there.

But here it is, President’s Day and not even a Tuesday (when Pint & Plow is closed and its devotees flock here) and it’s pumping. Eight of 11 tables are filled, and there is a line of two customers at the register. The piped in music–which I can hear somewhat over the grateful din of friends talking–is like a Colbie Caillet/Ariana Grande/Kina Grannis type. (While editing this, I use Shazam to learn that it is Billie Eilish.) Having a coffeeshop that stays open into the evening is a boon to downtown. Think: Francisco’s for lunch, Pax for afternoon coffee work session, and Heritage Kitchen (new to the block) for a locally-sourced restaurant. Everything that helps “Historic Downtown Kerrville” is what I’m in favor of.

And, before you ask–yes: the above flower photo looks so much nicer in color. But if I publish a 4-color photo, you might think I’ve softened.

Perish the thought.

I still think Kerrville needs good pizza and bagels. (One less donut shop, one more deli run by Korean immigrants who can rock the bagel and cream cheese combo.) The bagels at Pax are actually passable, though the staff could do well to put a real schmear on one–we’re talking a layer of cream cheese at least 1/8th to 3/16ths of an inch in thickness–and then place both halves back in sandwich form and cut it diametrically. Cream cheese destined for bagels is not to be treated like suntan lotion in North Dakota. (Applied sparsely and only on special occasions.) Or like butter, which is for flavor. Cream cheese is like the baked potato alongside the steak. It stands on its own.

And a bagel with a schmear should never be served open-faced.

Ever.

(That said: long live Pax.)

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Call me

Call me.

That’s what I say to the Owner of this white Corvette, parked on the right along Junction Highway just shy of Woodlawn as you travel north.

Because more than wanting to know the price, I’d like to know why it’s been sitting there since I moved to Kerrville one year ago tomorrow. I mean, she’s a beaut.

Just sitting there.

Maybe it’s the lack of a phone number. But you’d think that the Owner would stop by now and then to check on this cream puff.

I just want to know the story behind it.

So: call me. You’ve got my number.

Maybe.

A longing for chrome?

Karen said, “Do you realize every car we’ve bought has been silver?”

No, I hadn’t, as a matter of fact.

But, yes: “the Corolla, the (Honda) minivan, and this one” (a used Hyundai Santa Fe Sport AWD, as of yesterday).

“Even the Volvo,” she said. Yes, even the “volume car” as our toddler son Carter dubbed it. A Volvo 240 with standard transmission that Karen taught me to drive. Loved it. Felt the road. Made me pay attention to my actions.

Four cars, all silver. Like a corporate fleet. There must be a…thing…about that. Something about color or ego or insecurity. And because we’ve bought these four cars as a couple, who’s to say who’s got the color or ego or insecurity issues?

It’s a conundrum.

But when I sold the minivan to the garage parking attendant shortly after we moved back from Massachusetts to New York City’s Upper West Side in 2007, he pointed me to a silver Bentley adjacent to our car and said, “That belongs to Lady Gaga.”

I replied, “Who?”

I did.