Hurricane Isadore blew by the Keys, so it was pins and needles for a while there, but things appear to be okay now. I�ve just been chugging along with work, hanging out, running and Tae Kwon Do.
Oh, I forgot to tell you guys about Shawn�s and my road trip to Venice Beach (FL) a few weekends ago!
We loaded up Mr. Boombastic and headed to the mainland. Once there, we stopped at Wal-Mart for various supplies, and a bikini for Shawn. Holy crap, it was like someone had thrown all the bikini parts into a big pile and then tossed the racks on top of the Lycra. Yikes.
Me: �Shawn, this is where bad bikinis go after they die.�
She found some stuff to try on, but several of them were attached tops-to-bottoms by those plastic security thingies. After several failed attempts to get some FUCKING SERVICE, I said, �Screw this,� and leaped over the counter in search of the plastic security thingy-taker-offer. Once I found it, it was a whole new ball of crud trying to get it to actually remove the damn thing � neither Shawn nor I had ever worked in retail. By the end of the shopping, though, I was an expert � hell, I was removing things for strangers. I�m all, �Step right up, folks!�
Despite my trespassing, not one employee ever did come to help us out.
Soon, we were on our way � Three hour drive up the west coast, through the swamps of the Everglades.
Subtle foreshadowing: One other thing I should mention about Mr. Boombastic is that the gas gauge is broken. We judge when we need gas by watching for the gas light, then finding a gas station.
A few weeks ago, I got Shawn hooked on The Celebrity Name Game. After the Venice weekend, I very much regretted that, because we pretty much played it nonstop for three days. It was involuntary after the first 20 straight hours.
Anyway, on the car ride up, Shawn and I were in the middle of a real live swamp, absorbed in the name game, when all of a sudden, Shawn goes, �Shit. The gas light is on, and I don�t know for how long because I was playing the game.�
Me: �Okay. We just need to find a gas station.�
Shawn: �Keep track of those emergency call boxes.�
Me: �There�s one every mile. Don�t freak out. This is out of our control now.�
That statement was followed over the next 15 minutes by screams of, �Where the FUCK is a FUCKING GAS station?!� from both of us, because we were really, truly in the middle of nowhere. Shawn also spent some time cursing our lack of a cell phone.
A few minutes later, we were done. Shawn: �That�s it.�
By some bizarre coincidence, we ran out of gas as we rolled up directly next to a call box. I could have reached out my window and gotten it, but we got out and opened the plastic cover.
Me: �Ack! Spider! Big, hairy spider!�
There were four buttons: Gas/Service, Ambulance, Police and Cancel. I considered pushing all of the first three, then went with Gas/Service.
Me: �Dude, get settled. We could easily be here for a few hours.�
It was so hot, the sight of Shawn smoking a cigarette almost made me boil. Everything looked hazy and liquid, and we were so deep in swamp country, I could practically feel the alligators nipping at our heels. Cars were flying by, and we considered showing a little leg to see of someone with a gas can would pull over, but just decided to melt alive instead.
Not SEVEN MINUTES later, a truck with flashing lights pulled up behind us. We couldn�t believe it. Shawn and I were fluttering around Road Ranger James like little butterflies, we were so excited to be rescued. Road Ranger James informed us that there was no charge for the gas or service, but we were welcome to tip. We can�t vote to save our lives, but sometimes I really, really love Florida.
Road Ranger James put a few gallons in Mr. Boombastic�s tank. Shawn and I pulled together some tip cash, and as he was leaving, I jumped on him and gave him a big hug. I just couldn�t help it, I was SO grateful. Shawn embraced Road Ranger James, too, while he stuttered, �Wow. Nothing like this has EVER happened to me before!�
Made his day.
The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful. Stinky restrooms, loud singing, fits of giggling, weird encounters with strangers � usual road trip stuff. As we arrived in Venice and were following the directions to the house, it started to pour. We found the house, knocked, and there was no answer. Finally, our friend Matt came outside and found me crouching under a boat parked in the driveway, both Shawn and me laughing in that punchy way that only two people who have been trapped in a car together for three and a half hours can laugh.
We went in the house. Right away, I noticed something weird. There was a huge, REAL zebra skin rug front and center in the living room. And the knickknacks and pictures on the walls were just� weird. I couldn�t put my finger on it, but it wasn�t quite right. When we were shooting pool and I noticed the extensive and terrifying collection of clown figurines, I asked Matt what the hell was the deal.
Turns out, the homeowners were away because they were touring with the circus. We were staying in the home of one of the top three trapeze acts in the world.
Me: �Cool. But if those clown come to life in the middle of the night, we�re all fucking DEAD.�
The rest of the weekend was a flurry of clubbing, partying, and beaching. It was lots of fun, but there weren�t any real stories.
Well, nothing I can type here, anyway.
