Does anyone know of a place I can crash during the Republican National Committee? I’d much prefer to rent a room from someone than to stay in a hotel, and I’m guessing my hotel options are pretty limited at this point.
I am in Charleston right now with high school friends, and we’ve been pressing down the coast since Richmond. Ocracoke Island was quite nice. I rode a horse for the first time in life. You see, I’m pretty unadventurous, and I prefer traveling under my own steam — that is, via my legs, or possibly trains, which are powered by diesel and not the animal protein I consume regularly and in copious amounts. So imagine my surprise when “my horse” galloped at lightning speed on the beach. It is a minor miracle that I didn’t wet my paints, literally or metaphorically. One thing that was particularly cool: our guides were these very smart 6th grade girls, who hugely outclassed me in composure, etc. My high school friends had more riding experience, and so they were in better shape. I must say, I enjoyed the experience enough that I’d be inclined to try it again.
I’ve known these guys since I was 14, i.e., for half of my life. They’ve become interesting people. I mean, they were interesting kids, but it is particularly interesting to see how they became the people they are, and what was predictable vs. what was not. I still can’t stand alcohol, which is not to say I had a lot of drinking opportunities as a kid — but I remember powerfully hating the idea of alcohol coming near my mouth as a kid, which is strange. Perhaps this is because I secretly suspect I’d be susceptible to its charms to the point of near-constant wanton drunkenness. Thanks superego! Another friend of ours was supposed to come, but he’s handling some kind of MLB business. Apparently he’ll be on ESPN to discuss the “exploding bat” crisis. That’s pretty cool, admittedly, but probably not cool enough to justify punking out of the road trip.
My main agenda has been to hit regional chains on the highway, but we’ve done a little less of that than I had anticipated, probably for the best. I’m on the roof of a neat inn. I was wondering to myself: what kind of job would my Charleston-counterpart have? My friend’s mother tells us that Savannah is the better burg. We’ll find out soon. Briefly, I’ve just discovered that Christopher de Burgh, who sang the extraordinary “Don’t Pay the Ferryman,” will perform in Teheran in November. How utterly bizarre. In the spirit of “Don’t Pay the Ferryman,” I am inclined to sing, “Don’t Pay the Taliban,” or, more appropriately, “Don’t Pay the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps.”
It is pretty hot out, I tell ya. I like it, though. It’s not too soupy at the moment. I have a lot more to write about, and I’ll hopefully get to do some more before I get back home on Sunday. But I now realize that I’ve locked myself out of my room and I still have a fair bit of work to do.