WELCOME TO MY NIGHTMARE

I have been fucking busy.

Which is not really a bad thing, but in the futile pursuit of just trying to hold it together and not haul off and kill somebody, I've found very few moments to rub together to do anything that is not working, eating, sleeping, or sitting perfectly still and staring at something in the hopes that the ceaseless screaming in my head will stop.

But- being fucking busy beats the ever-lovin' blue eyed shit out of being bored.

If I accomplish absolutely nothing else in the middle-of-the-road life I've thus far established for myself, I hope to be able to at LEAST say "I'm not bored." The only time I get bored anymore seems to be when I'm forced to go to something I don't want to go to- like a wedding, or a baby shower, or somone's birthday or some other tedious and supposedly "life affirming" engagement which never seems to be as much life affirming for me as it tends to be something I have to get through before I move on to the other thing.

When I was a scrappy young pup, I could entertain myself with almost nothing. But God damn this retardedly A.D.D. world we've created for ourselves where a day in and day out rat race of trying to remember shit and get things done makes us ever-more susceptible to the dreaded boredom monster in our down time. Remember having an imagination? That was fucking cool.

But alas- now the ol' 'magination is all milky-eyed and senile. It needs to go through intensive physical and mental therapy before it will be of any use to anyone. It has been beaten into submission, soiled its adult undergarments, and is now shivvering in the corner, moaning softly to itself. I find myself thinking of funny scenarios, and they usually end up with a dog farting, or someone falling down.

Clearly, I have a rapier wit.

However- I solider on, typing into this thing to calm the shrieking demons in my brain and to attempt to keep it from hardening into a useless, cantaloupe-like object.

But I digress...

TO LIVE IS TO FLY...


I have not left the midwest in nearly 6 years.

Or... more correctly, I HADN'T left the midwest for 6 years up until this past month, when I embarked on not one, but two completely different trips in as many weeks- one business, one pleasure. Shaken, not stirred.

Being stuck in the same place...well...it sucks. It sucks a lot. I had no idea just exactly HOW much it sucked until I left. Like a shitty relationship in which neither person involved is willing to admit life has become a daily struggle to NOT drink a bottle of Draino, being stuck in the same place for days and years on end is a recipe for claustophobic, pent-up rage that explodes at completely inopportune times-

"I SAID NO PICKLES MOTHER FUCKER!! Oh... my... I'm sorry. I've been stuck in the midwest for the last 6 years."

Because, really- living in Chicago and driving to Wisconsin (or Iowa, Indiana, Missouri, Ohio, or Minnesota for that matter) is not so totally unlike Chicago in climate or local personality to elicit an entirely fresh experience. Which is not to detract from any of those places (well... okay. Except Indiana...) I was born and bred in the Midwest- I love the Midwest. But.. I've been here a long time.

So- the miss and I decided to pack up five days worth of shit and fly out to San Diego to visit my brother and his wife. This was slated to coincide with the rum-and tremelo-guitar-soaked bliss that is the Tiki Oasis festival- a weekend of surf bands, costume contests, elaborate rum drinks, and more.

I am a sucker for many things, one of them is tiki bars. I love them. I can't pinpoint why- my first attraction had something to do with the bizarre, wholly un-PC idea of the "exotica" movement of the post-war era that gave birth to most of them. At the time "Exotica" was just a hodge podge of objects from far-flung and completely different locales smashed together into a dark, rummy bar that, when the combination was just right, also served up some type of delicious pineapple-infused form of chinese food. That's why many middle-tier Cantonese Chinese restaurants still offer things like Orange Chicken and Sweet & Sour Pork. This is American ingenuity and incompetence of the world around it at its finest. Suddenly, China and Rapa Nu'i are the same- the same in that they aren't American. To me, Exotica and the Polynesian phenomenon was a way of saying "well, you'll never be able to afford actually going to these places, so here's what we think they should be like." It's like actually going to Borneo, except everyone is white and on the payroll, there's no malaria or giant insects, you can eat fried chicken, and drive home from it in 15 minutes.

I also love surf music. Again- it stems from some long-seated obsession with classic horror films and their weird TV-based resurgence of the 1950's, when horror hosts broadcast everything from "Bride of Frankenstein" to "The Hideous Sun Demon" into people's homes. When Dracula wasn't a bloodsucking demon from hell, as much as he was a guy who wore a cape and evening wear, talked with a funny accent and drove a hot rod. The Munsters and Ed "Big Daddy" Roth (along with Warner Brothers cartoons) probably did more to develop my interests and personality than all of my familial elders combined. Thanks, TV generation. For a brief time, surf music and Mummies rub shoulders. I love them both. If I could hug the shit out of a mummy, I would.

So Tiki Oasis made perfect sense for me and my eternally up-for-anything and easy-going girlfriend (who- for dating someone whose interests in taxedermy, accordion music, and smoked meats are on an even keel- I think you would have to be) to use as fuel to take our collective first vacation in 6 years.

But... more on that later. For now, in the immortal words of the King of Cartoons on Pee Wee's Playhouse, "HERE'S a car -TOON!"

Actually... because I just seriously quoted the unquestionably gay King of Cartoons, I must now make myself another drink at twice its normal potency.

Thanks again, TV brain.