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Saturday, August 13, 2011

Fringeville Edition #23, August 13 2011

Vacation, Day Three

When I was a kid my dad, Wally, bitched about gas prices every time he filled up the car.

"Twenty-seven cents a gallon! I remember when it was nineteen! If this keeps up, the price of gas will double. No one can afford to drive at forty-cents a gallon!"

I found this old pump on Sunday River Road in Newry, Maine. The last sale was at 36.9 cents a gallon. Wally would've been apoplectic if he saw that pump back in the day.

Prices now are eleven times or more what they were on this old pump. If Wally was still around, we'd have to dress him like Hannibal Lecter to keep him from gnawing the arms off gas pumps.

Hey, Wally: Four #$%% dollars a gallon!

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In case anyone wonders why someone writes or blogs on vacation, here's my answer:  Writing is breathing to me. Can't stop breathing. It's bad for the skin color.

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This vacation we were booked in two different areas of the resort: The first two nights in a traditional hotel, the rest of the time in a ski lodge open only to guests of my nephew's wedding. Everyone and anyone on hand is here for the nuptials, so we can all comfortably let down our hair a bit. It's all family or family-to-be.

When we checked in at the ski lodge, we were given a lovely room at the end of the hall. We were supposed to be on the 2nd floor, but the missus has a gimpy foot, so we asked for something on ground level. We got a nice big room with a little nook where I could write while the womenfolk slept. The bathroom was spacious, with plenty of room to store the all-important coolers.

We loved it, right up to the moment when the air conditioning unit nearly caught fire.

At first, it was fine. But after an hour or so, we smelled something.

"It's probably just musty inside," I said. "It hasn't been run in a while. It'll be fine in an hour or so."

But a couple hours later, I went to fetch the manager. The oddly electrical odor had crept halfway up the hall. While I was talking to the manager, the missus was in the room. The air conditioner made a series of pops and then smoke came out of the side, scaring the bejesus out her. I walked into the room just as the unit threatened to burst into flames and unplugged it.

A half hour later, we were in a tiny new room. But at least we weren't going to roast alive.

I went to bed at that point. Nearly burning down a resort just wears one out.

"Set the air conditioner to incinerate, Spock!"

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