Being gainfully unemployed sorta has its advantages. I now have more time to prepare for my three fantasy football drafts, more time to avoid cleaning my room, and somehow less time to devote to blogging (but since blogging is like the new crack and
New Coke combined, I can't stop feeding into the a dick tion). It also allows me to do things I normally can't do, like collect money from the gov'mint instead of having them take it from me, eat only PB & J sangwhiches for a week straight, sneak into multiple movies at
the greatest googleplex this side of a Muvico, and do odd jobs (and I aint talkin bout
a Hawaiian henchman) in not so odd places. As for that last point, I did just that for 11 loverly days in the ever so loverly Burlington, Vermont, which sadly, I found out, is NOT the home of
The Burlington Coat Factory (boo-urnidly,
Jersey gets that claim to lame). The work was easy, the weather was the heezy, my hosts (Bob, The Big Bad Bossman and his even loverlier wife Turn The Paige) and co-workers (Ali and Dave) were more franztatsicshezzy than
Neil Sheehy, and my time spent was sum of the most relaxed and tranquil spent timeteezy that I have spended in quite awhile, that wasn't sleazy. So much so that I didn't even really want to come back to NYShitty. I mean, where else do you get to pimp yoself around in a Ford F-150 pick-up truck and gaze at clouds and landscapes so darn bootyful that not even the great-froed
Bob Ross could visualize anything butter, even all methed up on
Vandyke brown.
Say hello to my not so little friend
Who sucks up dollars faster than I suck up Green Apple Blow Pops
And although my head was in the clouds (Mike's family)
I wish they were between someone's legsThe dinning was fine, but I didn't really go for the fine dinning. Instead I greased it up at the splendiddilydehaus
Al's French Frys, slurped down some pasta sauce at
Bove's, freshened up al fresco on the blocked-off tourist friendly Church Street at Ken's Pizza, gave my Jew seal of approval to VT bagels at
GT Trono & Sons Factory, gobbled greatness at
Martone's Market, got all fishy and a bit chipper in
the Tavern at Essex Inn, and ate my weight in meats (hispecially turkey wrapped in bacon) at
Souza's Churrascaria. All are muss stops if you find yerself in the hiz-area.
And what did I do to patrick pass the time besides raping my hotel's Bidness Center (aka the internets room), cry during the last
Six Feet Under, masturbate, and search for people of color? Lots, like taking in a
Vermont Expos game for three chilling innings before even my Fantasy Fooball mag bored me to death, saw fourzillion flicks at 4 different theaters (big ups to
Merrill's Roxy Cinemas for playing artsier fartsier fare and to
The Sunset Drive-In Theater for allowing me the great pleasure of seeing a double feature at an actual freakin drive-in for the first time since 1984, when they
had one right across from Montgomery College, aka Harvard on the Pike), bowled twice (snatchurally) at
Yankee Lanes, made peace with my semi-not-loving of dawgs, and strolled around one of the most unique museums I have ever visited,
The Shelburne Museum (think The
American History Museum mixed with
Williamsburg slazzled with
The Met). Yep, I pretty much did it all besides dropping by The Ben and Jerry's and Cabot Cheese factories, lick maple syrup like I promised, smoke greens in the green state, or get laid. Oh well that ends well.
Go Pug Yourself
Grease was the word
Jake Gyllenhaal would be proud
aka banging the Candlestick Maker
