If I ever have the great good luck to win some kind of lottery, I’d be faced with a serious choice.

Option 1: 

  • become a jet-setter and travel the globe, visiting unfamiliar places like Helsinki, Prague etc.:


  • go shooting in Britishland with Mr. Free Market,

  • sip long glasses of G&T on the balcony of my hotel room in Monte Carlo or in a beach house in the Seychelles:

…and generally spend the rest of my life in strange, exciting places.

Option 2:

Buy a large farm somewhere and live (and end) the rest of my life like Uncle Hub and Uncle Garth, snarling at the world and shooting at strangers from my porch:

And don’t tell me to embrace the healing power of “and”, because the two lifestyles are completely opposite and contrary, and my faltering old brain probably couldn’t handle the sudden shift back and forth.

People who know me well, like my Longtime Loyal Readers, will appreciate the attraction of both options to me.

Back Home

Got back to my lair (see above) late last night, and am now safely ensconced therein.

Of course, nothing ever runs to plan, and in this case it’s because Stupid Kim forgot his laptop power cord in Boise.  But thanks to the ever-resourceful Mo K., it should be delivered to my sooper-seekrit mailing address sometime this afternoon, so proper blogging should recommence tomorrow.  See y’all then.

Travel Travails

And lo did Your Humble Narrator arrive with his squire, Mark C. unto the hostelry known as the House Of So-Called Friend Jay K. and his Wyffe, the lovely Mo (who is most surely a Witch).

And these fiends did ply Our Weary Travelers with much drinke, most especially the liqueuere called Morangie for Your Humble Narrator, and for his squire a hogshead of ale brewed locally.

There was Feasting and Merriment unto an hour so late that the cocks had long since crowed and gone back in for their Cockly Breakfast, of what I know not.

And there was no Bloggynge script inscribed, for which Your Humble Narrator begs fulsome pardonne.

With heads verily sore, and throats as the desert, did Our Weary Travelers resume their journey south, more or lesse, towards the city close to the mountains, in which it is said there lurk many dragons who would steal most foully Your Humble Narrator’s trusty Sword.

Journey’s End

Arrived in Orofino ID last night, checked into hotel.  Went out to dinner, was reminded that “Orofino” and “fine dining” are antithetical concepts and should never be used in the same paragraph let alone sentence.

Tomorrow’s  weather forecast is British, i.e. miserable, cold, rainy and muddy, but I’ll survive, by huddling in Reader&Friend Mark’s yooge Texas truck sucking down  — fuck me, I forgot to pack both the gin and the Southern Comfort.

I’m getting too old for this foolishness, but maybe a boomer or two will cheer me up.  That’s always worked in the past…