Going on vacation is terribly disorienting. There is something unnatural about lying half-naked around an overly chlorinated cerulean trough with a horde of strangers drinking watery mai tais and punch. There's a reason why the Lord invented clothing and I think it has something to do with nausea.
The rare possibility of celebrating the proximity of a ripe brimful bosom is more than offset by the greater likelihood of tripping over the hairy anal crack of a hammertoed pensioner with gout.
Southern California, I recently learned, is about as glamorous as Staten Island only five times more expensive. My travel agent assured me that the sunny shoals of Marina de Rey were abundant with the glittering fanfare of celebrity and allure. Instead the only siren song withing striking distance was the menacing din of the adjacent Los Angeles International Airport.
Between you and me, I'd just as soon stay at home. The food might not be great but it's edible and though my lawn chair doesn't appoint upon a pool at least I'm not surrounded by a quorum of preoccupied peons scrolling all day down their not so smart smartphones.
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