I drove to Michigan today, since my brother is getting married tomorrow. I used to fly here, but I’ve had so many troubles with that, I decided to try the driving approach this time around. It took about 12 hours, which is materially faster than many attempts in the past, though certainly longer than the theoretical optimal, whether connecting or just dumping me in Chicago/Detroit and then driving from there. Ultimately, 8 hours in air transit or 12 hours driving … it’s sort of a wash.
On the way over, I listened to the entirety of the new stereo Beatles box set. It was good. I think I’m torn between Sgt. Pepper and Magical Mystery Tour as my favorite for the first pass. We’ll see in the long run. The later stuff has some great tracks, but so much other random shit that weakens the albums as a whole. That’s my take, at least.
I’ll probably catch up on This American Life on the way back, rather than a repeat Beatles performance.
So, we did the rehearsal and dinner this evening, and then I begged off, having been up since 4. Besides, nobody really seemed to want to go partying/drinking/anything. Not really my crowd, even if they were interested. That’s fine, it’s not my day.
Anyway, I stopped by the supermarket and got some Bell’s stout, which was nice, since I bought it at a grocery store after ten. And I could have bought liquor there too. Stupid prohibitionist Connecticut and its moronic liquor laws.
So I get back to my hotel room and pop open a bottle of beer, and my next door neighbor gets a visitor from Kalamzoo. A prostitute. They start discussing services, but it must be bill-by-the-hour, since there’s lot of polite conversation and flirting, interspersed with the occasional business specifics.
I can hear all of this, in detail, because there are INCHES of space under the doors that separate the rooms for the can-be-joined rooms. I’d provide some of the choice quotes, except none are choice. And all are scary.