Well, today was my last day in Vegas. It was cool for the desert--about seventy degrees--and although the boy pestered me to let him stay a couple more days (no school to go home to, after all), I decided we would drive back today and wouldn't let him dissuade me. Time will tell if I was foolhardy to go on this trip at all, or if it was a good use of a weekend. In the world (and this country), the shit really seems to be hitting the you-know-what, and if the worst comes to pass, well, I had one last good vacation with the closest thing I'll ever have to a son.
At the same time--and sorry to be melancholy--there's a damned good chance that the end of the world has not come to us yet, despite the shelves at (EVERY) Walmart looking like this:
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| Yes, I took this picture. |
I wonder if I should write today. I drove for several hours, always trying to keep to the speed limit (cars and trucks were zooming past me like the Riders of the Apocalypse were after them, and I kept thinking about the ticket I got on Thursday, and how I would possibly pay for it), and there were some moments when it was hard to stay awake.
There was a stretch of about seventy minutes where the radio stations were all staticky, and what did come in was one Country station and three religious broadcasts (one of those was an Easy Listening station that I'd have been fine to listen to, except for that on Sundays they become all liturgical, and that sort of thing ain't my bag, baby).
I listened to a few Country songs, but was sure glad when the usual stations started showing up on the dial once again (I had brought an audiobook to listen to when my nephew fell asleep, but dude, it's got two point of view characters and two narrators, but both of them are female, with the same accent and pitch of voice, and I'll admit I could never keep them straight. Why the heck would you hire a second narrator unless it would be clear to the reader it's a different person reading this chapter than the last? Sigh).
The twelve year old was good company, most of the time, but he's at that age where he's extraordinarily solipsistic, and when he wanted to eat, or sleep, or go home, or do something else, it wasn't a suggestion, it was a divine decree from his holiness the Emperor. And I imagine when he becomes a teenager, it'll become even worse. It certainly was for me (and I never quite outgrew it). When he was fun, though, he was very fun. He vows to never accompany me to do karaoke (I really wanted to do it last night, but guess what, a lot of casinos, buffets, and karaoke bars closed in Las Vegas due to fear of spreading the virus), but he sang several songs with me, including Bohemian Rhapsody, Message In A Bottle, Sunglasses At Night, Hotel California (twice), and Circles by Post Malone multiple times.*
I got home around nine-fifteen pm, and after unpacking the car and doing a full run (I figure, the healthier I am, the longer I'll last when I get Captain Trips), I was tired and I didn't much want to write. But I sat down a little after one, and started a new story. In it, yet another dead rock star calls somebody from the Noble Oaks Bed & Breakfast, and though I guess I'm repeating myself, I just couldn't help it (in the very first story I wrote in this series, a music journalist has come to the hotel in hopes of interviewing the ghost of Jimi Hendrix--and it is never revealed whether it works out or not. And then something I wrote last month involved Natalie Whitmore getting a phone call from David Bowie, which I haven't used in a story, but may one day, because I really, really liked it). I just love the idea of speaking to friendly ghosts (the unfriendly ones tend not to speak, in my mind), and I wouldn't be surprised if Marvin Gaye or Janis Joplin or Del Shannon or Biz Markie (who isn't dead, but belongs on this list anyway) shows up in one someday.
In this story, Meeshelle, a young woman who used to work at the place, but quit after a quite terrifying experience, gets a call from everybody's favorite dead Beatle (unless you're a George guy), asking her to come back to work, on behalf of the boys. It was fun.
Then I wrote a bit more on it. I don't know if it will go anywhere, except that I now have three stories already written with Meeshelle working at Noble Oaks, so it's likely to be relevant eventually.
Tomorrow, I'll get up and see how much the world has changed. Hopefully, there's still room for me in it.
And you as well.
Words Today: 818
Words This Month: 18,882
*I asked him how many times we heard it, and he told me nine. I don't know if that's an exaggeration or not.
The twelve year old was good company, most of the time, but he's at that age where he's extraordinarily solipsistic, and when he wanted to eat, or sleep, or go home, or do something else, it wasn't a suggestion, it was a divine decree from his holiness the Emperor. And I imagine when he becomes a teenager, it'll become even worse. It certainly was for me (and I never quite outgrew it). When he was fun, though, he was very fun. He vows to never accompany me to do karaoke (I really wanted to do it last night, but guess what, a lot of casinos, buffets, and karaoke bars closed in Las Vegas due to fear of spreading the virus), but he sang several songs with me, including Bohemian Rhapsody, Message In A Bottle, Sunglasses At Night, Hotel California (twice), and Circles by Post Malone multiple times.*
I got home around nine-fifteen pm, and after unpacking the car and doing a full run (I figure, the healthier I am, the longer I'll last when I get Captain Trips), I was tired and I didn't much want to write. But I sat down a little after one, and started a new story. In it, yet another dead rock star calls somebody from the Noble Oaks Bed & Breakfast, and though I guess I'm repeating myself, I just couldn't help it (in the very first story I wrote in this series, a music journalist has come to the hotel in hopes of interviewing the ghost of Jimi Hendrix--and it is never revealed whether it works out or not. And then something I wrote last month involved Natalie Whitmore getting a phone call from David Bowie, which I haven't used in a story, but may one day, because I really, really liked it). I just love the idea of speaking to friendly ghosts (the unfriendly ones tend not to speak, in my mind), and I wouldn't be surprised if Marvin Gaye or Janis Joplin or Del Shannon or Biz Markie (who isn't dead, but belongs on this list anyway) shows up in one someday.
In this story, Meeshelle, a young woman who used to work at the place, but quit after a quite terrifying experience, gets a call from everybody's favorite dead Beatle (unless you're a George guy), asking her to come back to work, on behalf of the boys. It was fun.
Then I wrote a bit more on it. I don't know if it will go anywhere, except that I now have three stories already written with Meeshelle working at Noble Oaks, so it's likely to be relevant eventually.
Tomorrow, I'll get up and see how much the world has changed. Hopefully, there's still room for me in it.
And you as well.
Words Today: 818
Words This Month: 18,882
*I asked him how many times we heard it, and he told me nine. I don't know if that's an exaggeration or not.
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