Going Down to Galvaston

I just got back (three days ago) from the mushy shores of Galvaston, Texas. Rather than twist the episodes into a cohesive narrative, I'll just punctuate a few of the highlights in list form.

In the first leg of our journey my buddy and I stopped to see about lodging in a little town called Brinkley, Arkansas. We ultimately got back on the road and made it as far as Little Rock, but while there we saw an I-Stop Food Mart that doubled as a Radio Shack and a bar that had a poster board on its door with the following advisements:

• No beer on the patio
• This is a smoking establishment, so no one under 21 allowed
• No sagging
• No fighting

First day in Texas I made the decision to irradiate my back into crispy slurry. I keep forgetting that a Midwest sunburn is different than a Southern sunburn. In my mind, my lack of foresight in terms of sun damage prevention gave me license to whine like a little girl for the rest of the week.

Both my driving partner and the bloke we were visiting are huge Frisbee nerds (or 'disk' nerds as the case may sometimes be) and it seemed like many of our activities were fashioned around the proficiency with which one could manipulate a piece of molded plastic into gliding from one point to another. The most harrowing manifestation of this preoccupation was a game of Ultimate in 96° heat. My physical misery hit critical mass when I instinctively performed a dive-n-roll to collect a wayward pass, thereby aggravating my sunburnt back. Always the model of self-control, I stood to my full height and screamed nonsensically, much to the amusement of my two friends and the bewilderment of everyone else.

All in all, it was a tremendous vacation. I watched an Original Six team take the Stanley Cup, I held a ghost crab, and I got to meet somebody famous. Not too shabby.

Keep it here, Karl!

-Ryan