Right now in this the year of two-thousand-and-thirteen, my boyfriend and his boyfriend have just set up the good old SNES to play some NHL 94. From the living room I can hear the jubilant sounds of two thirty-year old men discussing hilarious stats and ratings of long-retired players and reliving the halcyon days of making Gretzky’s head bleed*. They’re forming up plans for a tournament they estimate might take the better part of a weekend, so I’m forming up plans to get the fuck out of dodge and hope someone remembers to feed my cats something other than spilled whiskey and burnt pizza.
Since my recent life has been pretty much all photography all the time, the natural thought is to plan a road trip to work with some different models in a different state. Or go back to the Museum of the Confederacy. Or see New Orleans. Or go to the beach. Or to big midwestern cities in which I’ve never spent much time!
Because that’s what a normal person’s travel route looks like, right? Some kind of Bermuda Triangle of Americana? And what’s, like, 60 hours of driving between friends?
For as much as I love my home and my home life, once I get further than an hour from home the temptation to just keep going is so strong.
Somebody regale me with hilarious road trip stories!
*That’s a Swingers joke and if you didn’t get it you should be ashamed of yourself.