Boy, there’s nothing more boring, or sad, than sitting alone at a hotel bar drinking beer. Even worse is when you’re talking to yourself like right now out loud.

What do you do? I don’t know. Never been in this situation before. What are those other stiffs doing? Hmmn. Staring at their beer. Watching baseball on TV. Turning soggy bar napkins into origami that resembles chicken dumplings. I can do that.

(Ten minutes later and the napkin looks like porridge.)

OK, now what. I’ll look around some more. Lots of interesting people that I could care less about. Is it me, or am I by far the best looking person in this room? Look at me in that mirror. I’m gorgeous! Look at me. Handsome, good lookin’ hair, sharp dresser, and oh crap! is that spinach in my teeth? Jeez, that mirror’s 20 yards away and I can still see it

(Ten minutes later and I’ve jury-rigged a toothpick out of a splinter in the bar and discreetly removed the spinach while pretending I was tying my shoe.)

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Heat Wave? Who the heck cares about a heat wave? I live in Florida, for Pete’s sake.

That was my response when people warned me about my trip to Washington D.C. “You know it’s hot up there,” they said.

“Oh, jeez, really,” I replied. “Not chilly like it is down here.”

“Be careful,” said my mother. “Take short, shallow breaths and try to wear as few clothes as you can. Eat a lot of ice and just remember, you grew up without air conditioning. Oh, and if you start to blackout on the street, don’t fall in some garbage. Look for a park bench. You don’t want to get a disease.”

Good advice, mom, good advice. I’ll just try to walk around naked and only on streets with benches.

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