Jim Beam, Cusano Cigar and a 1940's Motel

I originally was going to take pictures, but then it dawned on me I don't want to ruin it with digital precision and am going to let you imagine it.

I am currently sitting outside in my fold-out chair at my dirt cheap motel in a very small town nestled within the Black Hills of South Dakota. A place none of you will find. It's 78 degrees, about 2130 and the red neon lights just came on casting a very nice hue over the dilapidated trucks in the parking lot. The old man who runs the joint just came out and lit up a cigarette himself.

I am currently puffing on an M1 Cusano Torpedo Cut cigar with a flask of Jim Beam. I have no cell phone reception. Nobody can get in contact with me. I no longer suffer from the jilt or jolt of my cell phone vibrating or ringing, thereby making it my master of a Pavlovian dog-like response to some request or another. My only concerns for tomorrow is to determine which mountain I'm going to climb OR, if it's particularly hot which swimming hole I shall visit OR if it's particularly cool, which portion of the Badlands I shall hike straight through.

Additionally I have not listened to talk radio for about the past 3 weeks and am blissfully unaware of the debt and deficit problems I have tacitly paid attention to when I do decide to visit the Drudge Report. Though I have noticed on my sidebar plug-ins my dollar-short positions against the NOrwegian Kroner and the Canadian dollar are doing quite well - thank you Barry.

I did download some Tom Leykis so I could listen to something while I was driving my motorcycle around the Black Hills today, but otherwise right now I hear nothing but crickets and the occasional motorcycle or car driving by on the only paved road in town. I think I will drink myself my flask of Jim Beam and retire watching the history channel or the military channel.

If there is a way to enjoy the decline. This is it. Not trying, not working, and living as cheaply as possible on the minimum amount of labor you forfeited to the labor market/government-taxing machine. In the meantime I authorize all junior, deputy, aspiring, official or otherwise economists to pour themselves a hefty pour of whatever they got and make a long-range toast (wherever you may be in the Capposphere).

Enjoy the decline!