I’m pretty sure I’ve come down with a bad case of the summertime blues. And, as everybody knows, there ain’t no cure for the summertime blues, so the best I can do is sit and wonder what I’m a’gonna do.
I won’t be taking a vacation, that’s for sure. Because I gots no money, no time.
I’d love to take two weeks off and hop in the automobile with my wife and kids to go see some of the rest of America. Or take six weeks off and jump in a plane to go see a big chunk of Europe. Or take a year off and board a cruise ship to go see as much of the world as we can fit into 365 days of pure escapism. The world is really, really big—I don’t give a shit what Disneyland says about it being a small world, afterall—and I suspect it’d keep us entertained right up until the end.
But barring a miracle on the scale of coaxing water out of a stone, none of those things are going to happen. I’ll be taking what they call a “staycation,” or what poor people everywhere angrily refer to as sittin’ on the porch. No wonder poor people always look a little pissed off and a lot bored. Porch sittin’ ain’t what it’s cracked up to be, and it ain’t cracked up to be much.
If I’m super, super lucky—I rarely am–I’ll be able to keep myself from nodding off on the morning bus ride to work so I can take a quick look-see at Colorado’s famous mountains as they flash by my window. I’m sure the peaks are magnificent, because tourists travel here from all over the world to see their purple mountain’s majesty.
I see them—the tourists, not the mountains—all the time on the famous Pearl Street Mall & Ye Olde Tourist Trappe in Boulder, where I work. A lot of them—again, I’m speaking of the tourists here–seem to love ice cream, and toy shops, and dining at al fresco at cafes, although not necessarily in that order.
But I hate them—let me clarify that I’m still talking about the tourists–what with their contented-smiley faces, colorful tom-tinkers, drippy waffle cones, and whatnot. I hope the happy bastards all get painful sunburns sitting outside eating pasta alla carbonara in Colorado’s famous sun, which is about a mile closer to the Earth at this altitude than it is in New Jersey or California or wherever it is they hail from, and often takes ignorant tourists by surprise.
I in the meantime, I’m jus’ a’gonna to sit here and wonder what I’m a’gonna do, ‘cause there ain’t no cure for the summertime blues. Damn the luck.