September 23, 2006
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I’m in Montana for the weekend, with my dad. It’s a fun time. Only a five-hour drive and very picturesque. I’ll try to take as many pictures as I can, but I hate looking the tourist. Alas….I should be used to that by now.
My dad should be a bartender or a cab driver. People spill their problems to him very easily, apparently. The man who, immediately before me, left the internet station at this coffee shop, is now telling my dad about his co-dependant relationship, his wife named Edna and his son named Ernie, how he moved to a different bed, how he took Amtrak to Montana to get away, but now wants a refund on his ticket, and how Amtrak isn’t cooperating. Now he’s an architect, and now he’s talking about his childhood. His dad. His dog. His truck. An old folks’ home. Home repair. You name it. My dad’s side of the conversation: uh-huh…mmm-hmmm…oh yeah?….ok, ok….right…
I simply don’t have the patience.
I’m off to take pictures. See you, folks.
P.S. My dad just said, “Wow, imagine….yeah, I bet he did.” Haha.
Comments (6)
yeah, your dad sounds like a counselor.
i’ve met you dad– and i love him. he’s a sweetie.
whoah… lookie here, i’m the first to respond to your post.. that never happens!
If you play your cards right you can look like a photographer!
Which is a professional tourist.
Still, a bit better.
Oh come now. You have patience, you know you do. You’ve put up with my ramblings a few times.
dude. that would be the sweetest road trip ever.
thanks for your comment!
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make yourself a silk screen shirt that says,
“i’m not a tourist”