OK, so it’s the night before the
Display of Drunken Debauchery of Egomaniacal Bloggers Georgia Writers (Writers’?) Workshop. I missed Woodstock (I was in service at the time), but I’m not missing Jekyll, the Yasgur’s Farm of the 21st Century (at least, for me). I’m stoked.
Damned if I can figure out what to pack, because I don’t really give much of a shit about that as long as I remember to bring my money, credit cards, glasses (the sign of a “Woodstock Generation Guy”), and my farookin’ guitar.
Ate a bunch of way too greasy (and, therefore, delicious) food, so now I really, really have to pack. No more putting it off.
Finished packing. I have a small suitcase full of what I currently think I will need. I really don’t know if I brought all the necessaries, but I did pack extra underwear, out of fear, instilled by my granny, that I might get hit with a bus and show up in the Emergency Room with dirty underwear. The ambulance people may shovel my guts off the street, but, by God, I’ll be wearing clean underwear.
I had done a bit of pickin’ last night to confirm that my fingers were still attached to my left hand and that they still moved on command. I had intended to do a bit more pickin’ tonight, but after the diner chow and a couple cocktails I think I’ll just pack Mr. Guitar and wing it in Jekyll.
Next stop, Newark Airport.