It's that time again, isn't it? The old day-before-a-trip thing, when you realize you should've already gotten your hair cut, finished your laundry, and paid your taxes, but instead got drunk on champagne on a Sunday afternoon and spent several hours perusing an atlas on the couch. That should make this evening highly stressful. I'm thinking of packing at the laundromat while a gardener takes to my hairdo with a smallish lawn mower. Three birds, one stone, all that.
Our upcoming trip around the country is slated to last around five weeks, take us as far east as the Atlantic, through the "wait, a hotel room is 900 dollars tonight?" monster known as South By Southwest, Toronto (if they'll let us in), and ends up in Las Vegas, where I'll be gambling away the last of the money I will no longer be earning at the job I no longer have. Also: no Ohio. No offense, Ohio, but I'm very happy about that. Our previous stop-offs there can be remembered by white power gas station attendants, zero attendance shows at clubs previously peopled by white rappers with gag-worthy cornrows, and Chinese food that would embarrass the janitor at Panda Express so the prospect of gliding through the land of LeBron and Slayer unscathed is a pleasant one.
In fact, this tour is fairly light. Unlike prior trips, we aren't working six days a week or driving from Philidelphia to San Francisco in three days, or planning on getting lost in Utah and eating sausages made of cow heart, wheat mash, and cereal. As always, I'll try and update the blog-dealy as much as possible whilst we're away and will politely ask that anyone near any of the cities we're headed to comes out, says hello, and, of course, buys 18 shirts. For now, I'm a little stressed out, what with all the not-being-ready-ness, all the last-day-of-work-ness, and all the wait-we're-leaving-tomorrow?-ness of it all. Allow me to slump over in a corner, worry incessantly, and twitch noticeably for a moment. Don't mind me.
Tomorrow: San Diego. See you shortly.