Don’t get your panties in a bunch.
If you’re feeling sorry for yourself because you’re not at South By Southwest and you didn’t get to see Quentin Tarantino sitting alone, writing in his journal at the Omni Hotel bar*, let me see if I can’t give you a feel for what it’s like.
In the exhibition hall, a few booths down from my employer’s booth, there is a booth for company called Yam Trader. Their sign attempts to convince you that “everybody’s jumping on the yamwagon!” In order to entice you to hop on said yamwagon, they’ve spent two entire days erecting and painting a 20-foot-tall styrofoam yam.
One of the many perqs of my job is the travel. For example, this afternoon, I leave for the glamorous state of Rhode Island.
The most direct route from New Jersey to Rhode Island requires driving straight through Connecticut, a state I have vowed to destroy. As I will be absorbed in eating fried clams and coffee milk in mass quantities all weekend, Connecticutians are safe through at least Monday morning, at which point the state is due to be destroyed by a hurricane anyway, thus saving me the trouble.
Now that I think about it, washing Connecticut into the sea could be much environmentally friendly than burning it to the ground and then salting the earth, although I suppose it might contaminate the otherwise pristine Jersey Shore with bits of washed-up Connecticut flotsam. Also there’s a chance that a few people could swim to safety and end up on Long Island, and lord knows Long Island has enough problems.
Anyway, if I don’t make it home because I have (1) been crucified by angry Nutmeggers or (2) am dead of instantaneous fried clam-induced heart disease, know that I have loved you all.
Finally home, after a pedicure-free flight. Time for dog snorgling, food, shower, nap, and work, in that order.