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“You don’t like it? That’s Weezer! They’re a garage band!”“A garbage band? How appropriate?” he replied.Tina laughed. “Garage, Sam! Go..., you really are old!” Sam laughed in response, and Tina persisted. “What do you listen to?” she asked.“Me? Country.”“Ack! What, maybe you play the songs backwards and your girlfriend, dog, and pickup truck all come home?” she teased.Sam snorted and answered in a deep Southern drawl, “Damn Yankees! Nuthin’ but a dam bunch uv cahpet-baggas!”Tina’s eyes widened at. Lucile and I met in an airport gate awaiting a 2-1/2 hour night flight to Minneapolis. We exchanged first names only. Lucile appeared to be in her mid fifties, a large framed but trim woman with chestnut colored hair. Her tanned bosom was a contrasting surface for a single strand of pearls. “Hefty” is the word that first struck me for her full, ripe breasts barely contained behind her single-breasted business suit jacket. A lace modesty panel limited Lucile’s cleavage to a modest, if enticing. More

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