Home Again, Home Again

Jiggedy jig.

The Road Trip was Big Fun although quite exhausting.

At various points, I passed within 50 miles of chezsci and therobertpaul and thought, Just ditch this circus and go play with yr pals although since ostensibly I was already with my pals, I wasn’t sure how that was supposed to work.

I suppose the 72 Hour Rule was in effect.

I enjoy everything for 72 hours.

Las Vegas. Backpacking. Working in an ER. Hustling clients.

Precisely at the 72 hour mark, I begin to crack.

Marybeth used to call this, Patty’s Hollow Mirror Effect.

So it was around the 72 hour mark that I began to see WisCon and its inhabitants as a powwow of humorless, entitled Special Snowflakes who made me want to run screaming from the lobby of the Madison Concourse Hotel to find a voting booth where I could yank the lever repeatedly for Donald Trump.

This is completely on me, of course. As previously noted, I have a deep – some might say pathological – aversion to group dynamics. Doesn’t matter what group.

Nonetheless, I now understand the appeal of Donald Trump: He will rid America of Special Snowflakes.

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One does Road Trips for that sense of displacement from one’s – ha, ha, ha – real life, and for the weird, and for that oblique sense of connection you find in the most incongruous moments as though that waitress with the black eye tottering toward you in the Waffle House of the Damned is really you in some recent iteration of yourself (since it seems unlikely to me that reincarnation is a chronological phenomenon; it seems more likely that one is actually sharing the planet with all one’s various reincarnations.)

Thus, Hunter Thompson in the opening line of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas didn’t really need the drugs to take hold on the edge of the desert: Unreality is a function of Road Trips.

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More words later. Must exercise before the mercury hits 90.