Some of you folks might have noticed I took a couple days off over the weekend. At least, I hope some of you did. Further, I hope you’re not disappointed that I didn’t make it longer.
Anyway, last week was my best friend’s birthday. (We occasionally refer to each other as “brother,” as we’re both only children.) We just passed our 25th “anniversary” as well. For his birthday, I brought him back to New Hampshire — he’s my host in Maryland every summer — and we spent about 48 hours bombing around the state — wherever he wished. And before he left, we did something that was my idea entirely.
First, his idea. And I should have asked more questions ahead of time, because I’m still hurting. But it was so, so worth it.
Here’s a hint: my camera is not a Canon; that would have been a bit too on the nose. It’s a cheapo Vivitar.
Then, last night, we did something that only tangentially related to Miley Cyrus.
Or Kurt Cobain.
Or even Jim Morrison. Honest.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, my legs and feet and back are begging for relief…