Days Inn Room 105

Room 105 of this very hotel is today's title item. Oh yes, kiddies, Days Inn room 105 does exist. It does exist indeed. And it bestows an ill wind and foul odor upon all who may chance to darken it's doorway. Well OK, not really. But it was a pretty doggone mediocre accomodation for $130 + tax + another tax + fee for the safe in the room.

Quote for Wednesday: "Simon can kiss my ass. I do not look like a monkey." - Little squirrely dude on American Idol who indeed looks like a monkey.

"Get to work, that's what we're paying you for." - Ramblin' Ed to a class of TSA screeners at Miami International Airport.

And spaketh the travel lord, "Ye though the the food be wonderous and the ladies be bootielicious, the angels may yon attest, Miami sucketh." There is nothing easy here.

OK, I am back in Tampa. I liked Big Cypress, but I have never hidden my affinity for swamps. I grew up in the pine groves and Green Swamps of Southeastern North Carolina in Columbus County. Bt still, there is something about seeing alligators sunning themselves as you drive by that is just so Florida postcard.

I had my 47th birthday party yesterday. I was happy for me and sad for my beloved Saints. My birthday was marred by the Bears stomping the snot out of the Saints. It was ugly, but I... must... try... to... go... on.
This is the ironing board in my Miami hotel room. Granted, I did agree to a room of lesser quality than usual because it was so darn close to the airport. But what is the point of providing an iron and ironing board if you're only going to use the board as an anti-theft device for the iron? You know, like those gas station keys of old, handed over the counter to you attached to a 3 foot long piece of 2X4. This plate was bolted to the ironing board and the iron was cabled to the plate. I had to try to iron my clothes utilizing just the skinny little point of the board. Nothing in Miami is easy.

Pics from my birthday party yesterday:




Chapter 4: It's Only The American Way April 1979

I've been feeling like a half past ten
Writing letters that I'll never send
Dependant on that which I cannot depend
A knight for a night and a child once again
Wondering if this is the way I should go
This dusty old road to the travelin' show
A freak. Or a clown. Or a lady I've known.
The lady is gone and the clown's on his own
White as a ghost and feeling so blue
and seven more hours before I am through
a sonnet for me. Perhaps one for you
a song and a poem, a story or two
Yeah, once I was feeling a quarter to noon
and I hopped the first thing bound for the moon
the ride was too long and was over too soon
left me stranded alone with nothing to do
I found me a pen there to pass me some time
ripped out a blank page and commencing to rhyme
and to write about death (til I found I was dying)
pretty damn funny (so why am I crying?)

Not too skinny and not too old, out
Ramblin' Ed