Sunday Morning, dark and early, my roommate and I will hit that old dusty trail.
It’ll be just like The Road To Bali, only with less Bing Crosby and Bob Hope, and we’re not going to cross any oceans, and probably not as much singing. And no Dorothy Lamour. The odds of finding sunken treasure seems fairly low as well. Okay, now that I think about it, it’s not going to be anything like The Road To Bali at all. Let’s say no more about it.
What it is going to be like is getting the heck out of town with some shreds of my sanity intact. This whole summer work (the day job) has been an extra large portion of barking mad, lightly grilled and served on a toasted kaiser roll, slathered with crazy sauce and with a side order of blind gibbering chaos. About mid-July the inmates decided that they were too rational to run the asylum and turned the job over the bedbugs.
We’re going to beautiful downtown Myrtle Beach, SC, home of the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Odditorium, which I am not going to visit because it would remind me too much of work. Instead I am planning to spend a lot of time on the beach drinking and staring vaguely in the direction of Europe and being all literary and stuff.
I will of course be bringing my Magic Book Of Distant Seeing and several old fashioned paper-style notebooks, just in case the Inspiration Toad finds me there. (Which it probably will, the filthy creature.) However, the primary goal of the trip is to relax us both enough to stave off that Tri-State Killing Spree thing.
I am really looking forward to this trip. We have arranged for a
sacrificial victim pet sitter to drop by and make sure that the evil cat creatures have enough to eat and drink.
In a week I shall return, and it is hoped that I will be refreshed and rejuvenated by the trip, although I’ll settle for marginally less grumpy.