Cruise Refugee...

Reading Tucker Max is not necessarily the best book for a cruise, but it does put things in context...I mean, the guy is an asshole- but at least he is an honest asshole who does not really give a shit about what people think - he is just smart enough and good looking enough that people forgive him for his transgressions - he surrounds himself with smart funny people, and they sheild him - none the less, sitting on the balcony today, I was reading his stories, and decided that I would count the number of waves that rolled by the ship - this may sound boring, but givenb a chilled bottle of vodka, five hours to kill, and QUIET, it is a wonderful thing to do. I made it through the bottle of vodka and counted exactly 2,138 waves rolling in the ocean - no more, no less, so if you detect some drunken bitterness in this blog you are probably right -

You can go look at the ship my family and I are on at www.carnival.com - it is the Carnival Legend - it is a nice ship, but it is dumbed down by the Eastern Europeans with cameras every fifteen feet who refuse to not take your picture in front of a fake image of Tuscany - note to the cruise operators - if I wanted a picture in Tuscany, I would have fucking cruised to Tuscany - the real picture I am looking for (as we sail by the tip of Cuba) is a picture of me on a Coast Gaurd Cutter rounding up cuban refugees who are trying to float 60 miles to Miami on fourteen inner tubes secured with their hair (which they have been saving since the revolution to make rope)....now that would be more fitting.

Things are actually very nice - tonight is the "formal night" which for some of these folks apparently means "wear your favorite bridesmaid outfit" - for me - it means fuck you, I am wearing a blue blazer and tan slacks, and if a tie is required, well kiss my ass. I don't think the captain should get too upset by George wearing a blue blazer after dropping $4,500 on the vacation - if he does, well he can kiss my ass too.

Speaking of refugees, I am a refugee these days - I was walking through the Casino (yes - occassionally I have the ability to walk through one) and noticed an octagenarian sitting a penny slot - and he obviuosly had pulled a number in his Depends undergarments - but he was happy in his own filth - the machine must have been kicking back some of his hard saved social security checks, thirty cents at a time - is that what I have to look forward to? God, I hope not. I travel from town to town, and want to be in one simple small place - and can't even get there from here, hell I can't call there unless I am willing to drop $100 on a ten minute phone call - the captain can kiss my ass for that too.

I am into the whole getting my ass kissed on this blog - I needed this break - it has been great swimming with the kids in the pool, watching them grow into young adults at their "fancy dinners" and spending every minute possible with them - in fact, it is funny, dad is not as cool as the image is - so they run off to their respective cruise camps, but make sure to let me know when my time is permissable and allowed - Gray is in her fancy clothes tonight, and her beautiful blue eyes and pink cheeks are just enough to make me sit through another 100 photo settings - Gabe opted out of the fancy dinner - I wanted to go with him to cruise camp and make pizzas and do sand art - but for some reason, I was told that I had to dress (and hear "you did not even pack a tie?") and go eat in the main dining room with the other folks (who all are apparently from Boston or Maine) who made sure to change out of their "God Bless the Red Sox" t-shirts long enough to head to the tuxedo rental place on the Lido deck.

I am happy today - I can make phone calls to the mainland tomorrow, and I want to call now, but I can't - I am excited about the excursion, but I get to use the phone - and after two days without a telephone, I really would prefer that my scrotum be stretched and dried into a tamborine cover...

None the less, tomorrow we have hell, the turtle farm (i broke it to my daughter today that the turtle farm is for soup turtles, not sea turtles) and the Stingray encounter - and not to mention the sweet sound of a dial tone...

Ah, one misses the simple things in life - a song, a dial tone, and the ability to not have to drink vodka out of a monkey head carved into a coconut shell...

Until next time...