Game on!
So my previous genius road trip idea turned to dust and fell between my fingers five minutes after I came up with it. Let us not doubt the incredible incarnate brilliance built into it either. It was going to be the most possible fun any human being could geographically imagine having.
Three thousand miles with over four things built in to break up the monotony of endless American Freedom! One of those being stuff my face like a country bumpkin retard, fulla black eyed peas and cranberries and sweet potato pie, all courtesy of the Dillard House (www.dillardhouse.com).
And you cant drive after that either, cause someone (me) is probably gonna go and overdo it, and they wont wanna drive. Theyll wanna get in the back and lay a seat down so they can lay down since itll feel like you swallowed a fucking bowling ball. But the backseats a dangerous place. Its where people like to barf. Drunks (me). Little kids (me). Normal people who get stuck in the back seat on winding mountain roads (me again). The windows are no good. The view is terrible. The AC vents cant hit ya. It sucks ass. Its designed to punish people. I can only assume, and I feel safe in doing so, that the Dillard House experience is much better going down than coming back up.
Why the fuck am I even talking about this? Im not going there this time. And like I said one of the times I wrote in here before, there isnt going to be any visiting of my Masshole friends... which I gotta do soon. Need to see em in their natural element, free from the restrictions of living in strange lands seem to place on people. That, and I just like to travel. Cause I can.
And I dont think this time Im even gonna get to cook on the big-ass grill on the Putnam Lake beach, and drink Shaefer Light I carried down from the little grocery store on the hill, till the yokels come down and tell me to "put that nasty shit down" and forcefully offer (the way only New Yorkers can be forcefully polite) their wine to me, as they unscrew the cap...
SEPTEMBER 8
... is the day Im skipping out of here for the long weekend. Yankees/RedSox tickets for friday night have been bid on, on ebay. I will be hammered this time around thanks to the shitheads at Mcsorleys (http://www.urinal.net/mcsorleys/). Finally, I found a place that doesnt ask me "What KIND of beer do you want?" Because, I hafta say, I STILL dont give a fuck, this bar is crowded, Im thirsty, this place stinks, and your ugly. You could probably piss in a pitcher, and I wouldnt be able to tell the difference anyway, thank you very much, UF and Purple Porpoise and Market Street. Its just nice that the place cuts down on my decision making to "Light or Dark." I can appreciate that.
So thats where Ill be after I eat a heart attack on bread from the cheese store in sprawling Little Italy. All two blocks of it. The Allessa Cheese whatever-they call-themselves, store, factory, cutlery, whatever. They put Capicola, salami, prosciutto and roasted red peppers on a sandwich, and while every time I get on it may take 3 or 4 years of my life, I just cant seem to put it away. But seeing as how the place is a thousand miles away, Im somehow able to justify it whenever I make my way up there.
Across the street used to be a junk shop, and they hung an apron in the window that said "You dont like-a my cooking, I break-a your face!" I think they moved the shop though. Dont know why I remembered that. I guess it just never seemed to get old; always good for a laugh.
I suspect I will spend a large portion of my time up there eating pinole nut cookies until I am a fat bastard and have to buy an extra seat on the plane to fly back. Why? Because theyre so freakin good. Thats why.
And outside of that, ending the dry streak, and getting hammered, being a prick at a baseball game, and getting all gluttonous an shit, I dont know what Im going to do with myself up there. But with history as my guide, Im sure Ill figure something out.
Three thousand miles with over four things built in to break up the monotony of endless American Freedom! One of those being stuff my face like a country bumpkin retard, fulla black eyed peas and cranberries and sweet potato pie, all courtesy of the Dillard House (www.dillardhouse.com).
And you cant drive after that either, cause someone (me) is probably gonna go and overdo it, and they wont wanna drive. Theyll wanna get in the back and lay a seat down so they can lay down since itll feel like you swallowed a fucking bowling ball. But the backseats a dangerous place. Its where people like to barf. Drunks (me). Little kids (me). Normal people who get stuck in the back seat on winding mountain roads (me again). The windows are no good. The view is terrible. The AC vents cant hit ya. It sucks ass. Its designed to punish people. I can only assume, and I feel safe in doing so, that the Dillard House experience is much better going down than coming back up.
Why the fuck am I even talking about this? Im not going there this time. And like I said one of the times I wrote in here before, there isnt going to be any visiting of my Masshole friends... which I gotta do soon. Need to see em in their natural element, free from the restrictions of living in strange lands seem to place on people. That, and I just like to travel. Cause I can.
And I dont think this time Im even gonna get to cook on the big-ass grill on the Putnam Lake beach, and drink Shaefer Light I carried down from the little grocery store on the hill, till the yokels come down and tell me to "put that nasty shit down" and forcefully offer (the way only New Yorkers can be forcefully polite) their wine to me, as they unscrew the cap...
SEPTEMBER 8
... is the day Im skipping out of here for the long weekend. Yankees/RedSox tickets for friday night have been bid on, on ebay. I will be hammered this time around thanks to the shitheads at Mcsorleys (http://www.urinal.net/mcsorleys/). Finally, I found a place that doesnt ask me "What KIND of beer do you want?" Because, I hafta say, I STILL dont give a fuck, this bar is crowded, Im thirsty, this place stinks, and your ugly. You could probably piss in a pitcher, and I wouldnt be able to tell the difference anyway, thank you very much, UF and Purple Porpoise and Market Street. Its just nice that the place cuts down on my decision making to "Light or Dark." I can appreciate that.
So thats where Ill be after I eat a heart attack on bread from the cheese store in sprawling Little Italy. All two blocks of it. The Allessa Cheese whatever-they call-themselves, store, factory, cutlery, whatever. They put Capicola, salami, prosciutto and roasted red peppers on a sandwich, and while every time I get on it may take 3 or 4 years of my life, I just cant seem to put it away. But seeing as how the place is a thousand miles away, Im somehow able to justify it whenever I make my way up there.
Across the street used to be a junk shop, and they hung an apron in the window that said "You dont like-a my cooking, I break-a your face!" I think they moved the shop though. Dont know why I remembered that. I guess it just never seemed to get old; always good for a laugh.
I suspect I will spend a large portion of my time up there eating pinole nut cookies until I am a fat bastard and have to buy an extra seat on the plane to fly back. Why? Because theyre so freakin good. Thats why.
And outside of that, ending the dry streak, and getting hammered, being a prick at a baseball game, and getting all gluttonous an shit, I dont know what Im going to do with myself up there. But with history as my guide, Im sure Ill figure something out.