As our "hipster-prison prison bus" pulls up to a toll-road oasis for some fresh diesel, 4 mobsters step out of this-year's model of the american gas-guzzling SUV. They seem beat down from a long night of digging a hole for some poor rat in the remote countryside of upstate New York. Apparently, that sort of work makes one crave the hell out of Sbarro pizza pie and Starbucks. Or,did they stop at this particular gas station to use the only "manual flush" stall available on I-90? An engraved plaque was posted, complete with braille.......... After they are inside and out of site, Erik and i are tempted to knock on their trunk in hopes of hearing someone knock back. We resist the urge. Meanwhile, 2 "men-in-black" pull up in a van and park behind the gangsters ride in that shady sort of way. Shortly after, the 4 return and exchange niceties with the FBI fellas about new models of double barrel shotguns and smoke bombs. Can you really pay off our federal coppers in Starbucks these days?
In direct contradiction to our stay at thee Philadelphia Ikea-vomit-inn resort and lounge, we found ourselves in an oversized colonial maze of a hotel in DC. Emily and I must have walked past the "International Gay Square Dancing Club Convention" in the lobby/ballroom at least 4 times this morning before we found our way out of the ginormous building. And we certainly did not stumble upon any sort of secret fraternity of stomp dancers wielding oversized wooden candy canes and rehearsing in an alley at 2 am. The 30 or so adult black men did not delete video of themselves in Casey's camera and did not proceed to put on a private show for us and the Black Plague... Nope. Never happened
"...as memories are older they're like wine rarer, till if you find a real old memory, one of infancy, not an established often tasted one but a brand new one!"----jack....... Honestly, i owe this guy a cup cake and a burrito.
