I went to Vegas this weekend. We saw friends, and that part was great. And it’s always great to be with tom, it doesn’t matter where we are, but vegas started getting me down. I start feeling disconnected from the human race because vegas just is’t my kinda town, and I get so cynical. I don’t understand what people see in vegas, I just don’t. I don’t like to gamble, well, except for the $.50 roulette tables at the Westward Ho. I don’t like shows, I don’t like taking expensive cab rides everywhere, I don’t like overpriced mediocre meals, I hate crowds and crowded sidewalks. I just hate it all. So by the time it’s time to go home, I can’t wait to get myself to the airport. Saturday we spent three delightful hours reading magazines in a quiet corner of the airport. You aren’t supposed to be happy about things like that. You are supposed to be gambling until your flight is called. You are supposed to be buying cheap souvenirs for your friends, or eating really bad pizza. Not me. Just get me away from the crowds, give me a good magazine, a quiet spot, and tom’s knee to hold onto, and I’m set.
Today I was feeling all forelorn and whatnot. I had to drive to Pacific Grove to drop off some paintings. The drive did me good. I started out cynical and ended up counting my blessings for all the great things in my life. And I tried to identify a few things I might take for granted. So it’s ok, all is once again right with the world. As right as it can be for a cynical San Franciscan.