Hungover. So hungover.
Maybe it's just the abuse I've done to my body, but I am in no real mood to chow down right now. So maybe that's what makes these items from La Comida so unappetizing--
Breakfast Quesadilla-- Yeah, sure, okay. I'm willing to let breakfast tacos happen, so I'll willing to let this happen. Okay. Go on.
Fruit Quesadilla-- Wait. . . What? What the fuck is that even?
Breakfast Churros-- Alright, I'm going home.
Breakfast Margarita-- Not an actual
item, but it was what a man and his wife were drinking on the patio.
I'm sitting here in the shade of this
hotel's awning, listening to Miles Davis and watching their waterfall
flow. I'm sure I embarassed myself last night. That's almost assured.
But this is the west. If I can't just get ino a vehicle and start
fresh here then where could I?
I survived this hangover, I'll survive the next. Also, I think I drunk texted myself into a hunting trip this fall. So that's a new mistake to live through.
High Point of the Day: We found a hotel
that doesn't look like a place snuff porn victims were dumped. That was great.
Seriously, though, it was Cody's Dug Up Gun Museum. It's got the coolest collection of
rusty shit that you're ever going to see. I mean, if that's your sort of thing.
It isn't like the Cody Center of the
West that's up the block, which is simply overwhelming with its
content, this place tells a story.Why was this weapon dropped? Who was it
that lost this weapon? Why weren't they ever picked up? There's some
very obvious reasons for some of them, but then you wonder with
Like I was saying in an earlier entry, these
things tell a story.
Low Point of the Day: At the Firearms Exhibits at the Cody Center of the West, I was looking at a Gatling Gun in a display case when I noticed an Indian fellow sitting there staring at it. He then asked me and my dad "It looks happy, doesn't it?"
I don't know if I had a good response to that.
Waldoism of the Day: “This bar is
full of the three B's: Bikers, billionaires, and bums.”
Et Cetera: Besides the abundance of camping and
gun stores, proof that I am no longer in California can be seen in
the little things. There's the laxer smoking laws, there' the fact
that I haven't seen a red curb in six days (the same goes for parking
meters), and, more than anything, it's the proud lack of a state
sales tax over here that really hammers home that I am not in the
bureaucratic stronghold that is California. But then you just get the
weird things.
“Fireworks Outlet.” Now, I don't
know about you, but I were to buy fireworks, I don't think an outlet
store would be the first place that I'd head to. If push came to
shove, I mean.
As I am writing this in the car, a man
walked by without his dog on a leash. Maybe we've got a few things
figured out in California that they just don't want to admit to. The
opposite is probably true of us, though, right?
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