Another Look

Many moons back, I set up a scenario wherein you were going to drive around Italy with a beautiful woman, in a beautiful car.  (For those of shorter memory, or who missed it, here’s the premise.)

So here’s another one, closer to home.  The route I’ve chosen looks like this:  east-west along U.S. Highway 50, then a cut south before Cinci and Lexington (because ugh), then westward eastward along U.S. Route 70 to the Atlantic.  Starting point is Winchester VA (red dot #1) and the finishing point is wherever Dot #2 is, on the coast.

I’ve done the U.S. 50 bit myself before, and it’s beautiful.  I’ve done a little bit of U.S. 70 (from Nashville to Charlotte), and it’s also lovely. The road is twisty, the atmosphere romantic, and the scenery beautiful — from open fields to forested mountain passes.

The whole trip should take about 5-6 days, about 7 nights — because this isn’t a race.

So here are the choices (and remember, no switching around;  the choices are as set down), and the women are as pictured, not how they would look today.  And yes, assume a little romance along the way.

Choice #1:  1965 AC Cobra and Dita Von Teese


Choice #2:  1965 Shelby Mustang and Kelly Brook


Choice #3:  1956 T-bird and Lynda Carter


Choice #4:  1961 E-type and Liz Hurley:


Choice #5:  1959 Mercedes 190 SL and Laura Linney


Choice #6:  1965 Ferrari 275 GTB-4 Spider and Amy Adams

Your choice in Comments;  I’ll tell you mine tomorrow.

Final Update, I Promise

Annnnnnndddd:  it’s not COVID.

Seriously.  Last night I got the news from the Doctor’s Hottie that my ‘Rona test had come back negative. And so much for that.

What I actually have — WE THINK — is a simple, nonspecific upper-respiratory tract infection, so today I start a  Zithromax “Z-pak” treatment regimen which as explained to me is like shooting fish with a scattergun in that the drug targets “infections of the lungs, sinus, throat, tonsils, skin, urinary tract, cervix, or genitals.”

If we exclude “skin, urinary tract, cervix, or genitals” for obvious reasons (none of those bits hurt, or I don’t have them), that means that this little pink pill should address my sore throat, congested lungs and full-to-bursting sinuses, and about damn time.

And I’ve had that pennies-in-the-mouth taste over the past three days for nothing.

And I’ve also been feeling shitty for the past week for nothing — without the ever-popular COVID blocking the national consciousness, this would probably have been properly diagnosed on Day 1 had I said to the doctor — as I’d said to New Wife — that I’ve been dealing with this shit for most of my damn life.

Posts have been set up for the weekend (normal fare, btw), so I’ll see y’all on Monday.

Goddamn and fuck.

Closeup view of my throat, this morning:

Better Sleep Through Medicine And Willpower

I should mention that even before I got the “No-COVID” news last night, I’d been feeling better.

Not because of the anti-‘Rona drugs, of course, but because in a rare moment of clarity, I worked out that over the past six nights, I’d had maybe half an hour’s uninterrupted sleep per night because the fucking painful continuous coughing was waking me up.

So I put on my Big Boy Slippers and slouched over to the medicine cabinet right after New Wife left for work.

How, I asked myself, was I going to put myself into a deep sleep without resorting to extreme measures?

Three simple ingredients came to mind:

  • Robitussin.  My old friend “Robi” has always worked for me in the past
  • Max Strength Tylenol.  Another old friend
  • Willpower (which I’ll explain in a moment).

Dosages:  1 British Standard Mouthful of Robitussin (none of that stupid little cup thing they stick on the bottle).  1 BSM, based on my drinking experience with 6X ale, works out to about a quarter of an Imperial pint.  3 Tylenol tablets (1500mg of acetaminophen, according to the bottle)

…which leaves us with the all-important ingredient, willpower.

In my case, this involves not fighting off sleep, but actively pursuing it.  (Anyone who’s done military service knows what I’m talking about here:  you grab sleep whenever you can get it.)  But the second facet of willpower is to refuse to let whatever happens while you’re sleeping cause you to open your eyes.  So a coughing fit?  recognize and ignore the pain.  Dog licking your face?  punch and go back to sleep.  Thirst?  fuck that; deal with it later.  Blowjob?  push her away roughly.  (This last did not work so well when I was younger, admittedly.)

But you get the idea.

So I popped the Tylenol, washed them down with a huge slug of Robi, lay down on the living-room sofa with but a stadium rug for cover (didn’t want to bring heat / cold into the equation), and closed my eyes.

I woke up over seven hours later, feeling so much better that I sat up suddenly.  That was a mistake, and when I sat up again, more slowly, I spent about five minutes coughing phlegm up — and felt really much better, despite the pain in my throat.

I was even able to throw some posts together for today and the weekend, which I had not had the energy to do earlier in the week.

Let’s see how it goes from here.


Call this a product of my COVID-raddled brain, or at worst just an example of intellectual curiosity, but:

What if those 87,000 new IRS agents aren’t enough?

And I don’t mean sufficient in number to perform the increased number of audits that these godless fucks seem intent on inflicting us with, but sufficient to handle the — how can I put this delicately?  — potential bodycount.

I hope that this is just a delirium-induced thought, but there ya go.