No you will not be reading a detailed diary of the aforementioned Road Trip mostly because I spent the entire time searching for Monkeyboy who, with his clan of merry men, decided to practice his magic disappearing act the entire weekend. So between looking for my delinquent, fielding complaints from the hotel staff and answering questions about the location of places in a town I have never been to before (do I look like a concierge?) I wrote almost nothing.
The weekend did start off as odd as it ended however. Parked my vehicle at the ferry terminal to wait patiently for the next boat and was approached by a lady (and I use that term loosely) who wanted to know if I could give her husband a ride. Apparently their, what looked like 1970 VW, van broke down and he had a “gig” to get to. Well, let me think about that? Huh, sure lady, I’m gonna take your half baked, Birkenstock wearing husband with all his band stuff and give him a ride to some undisclosed location. What the heck. I like living on the edge. Does he have a weapon we should declare to? After I give the kid, who I am not pissed off with at this point, the “look” and tell him to get back in the vehicle I politely tell Mrs. Purple Hammer Pants that I don’t have room. Well, if nothing else she gave me something to chuckle about for a couple of hours.
My very enthusiastic plans to hit the pub and have a few bevys fell through as well. This event alone causes my blood pressure to rise. My babysitters were lured away. That’s all I can say.
Although I did not manage to document enough back up to politely tell the coach NO to the road trips next year I do have enough personal ammunition to remind him why this weekend should never be repeated. And remind him I will. Often.
