Don't come visit me however because as soon as i return my copy to the li-barry, i'll be going out to buy my own. Though i may blowtorch the bookstore on my way out. i'd better get it at Borders.
This book, this evil tome, aside from keeping me up right now vilifying it and looking up 'vilify' to make sure i used it correctly, yes, yes i did. This book, more importantly, this author, this verschlugginah meatpie, is living my life!
No, i didn't write margaritaville. i don't actually think i could string three chords together in such a way that would make people tap their feet much less throw money at me for a recording of it. No, i'm not likely to become a flyingboat pilot and live on islands from Martha's Vineyard to the Carribees. No, i'm not a saloon singer, a flyfisherman or writing a musical. i'm not even sure i would want to do those things.
But the things i do want to do, i don't do. And that, me friends, cohorts and unlucky acquaintances, (as if there were more than one of you reading this...) is the rub. Mr. Buffett, i am in no ways worthy of referring to him by his given name, does and apparently always has, done more or less, exactly what came into his balding little peanut to do. It hasn't always been successful, it hasn't always been pretty but he did it and he learned what worked and what doesn't.
AND ...he has nearly a whole chapter on the essential gear of his expeditions and being prepared and his search for the holy grail of backpacks to carry it all in and anyone who knows me knows that pretty well sums up the chewy, darkmeat core of this fricken.
What bugs me, what really shoves the shiv in me shins, what has me calling for arson on a Detroit Devil's night scale is this: that while Mr. Buffett's boyscout backpack is transporting snickers bars, bottled water, navigation gear, swag, and a big, fat wallet around the world...
My backpack doesn't leave my closet.