Boy, can we pick a vacation time and place or what? Herself and I celebrated her birthday this past week by jetting across the water to the Big Island just in time for Kilauea to erupt, the tsunami to strike and Hawaii to achieve the dubious honor of becoming the first state to see its gas prices top $4 per gallon, according to The Los Angeles Times. (Yeah, we had a rental car, a robin’s-egg-blue Mustang that was not exactly a fuel-sipper, and we were buying go-juice in the four-and-a-quarter range.)
Aside from that, the trip barely registered on the Suck-O-Meter®. Deep blue water, beaches in your choice of black, white or green sand, and good eats — what’s to bitch about?
Besides the friggin’ chickens, that is. Sonsabitches never button their beaks. Sunrise to sunset and all points in between it’s “Err err err err ERRRR!” Repeat until the vacationing haoles go batshit.
More words and pictures later, if I can remember where I packed my head. We’ve been up for about 30 hours straight, flying from the Big Island to San Francisco to Denver to Bibleburg. Don’t even ask where that left the needle on the Suck-O-Meter®, especially the final 15-minute leg.
But for a change the Vomit Comet was dialed down to minimal fear factor, so even that wasn’t as bad as I’ve seen it. We don’t call it the Vomit Comet for nothin’, Bubba.
• Late update: Happy trails to Owsley Stanley, who died Sunday at age 76. I never sampled his five-star product, but word on the street was that it made the shit we were eating in the late Sixties/early Seventies look like a short dog of Thunderbird in a crumpled paper bag parked next to a dusty bottle of Chateau d’Yquem 1929.
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