Sean B. Fitzgerald It doesn’t go something like this, it goes exactly like this.

Off To Italy

I'll be going there (see map) for the next ten days. Eating their food. Drinking their drink. Dancing with their women. You know, the usual. Obviously I am looking forward to it. But that eight hour flight (plus an hour connecting flight) is just looming in the back of my mind. Haven't we perfected teleportation yet? This is 2010 for Christ's sake. Back in the 20th century, movies promised us that by at least the year 2000 we'd have hover cars, 2-second burritos, and the ability to teleport. But no, I'm going to have to check my bags, park myself in a tiny ass seat, and watch three C-rated films as I trudge over the Atlantic. I'm banking on falling asleep though, which will be difficult. Usually for me, in order to fall asleep, everything needs to be right. Pitch black, slightly cold, and a warm blanket draped over me. So passing out in an upright, hard-backed, germ-invested plane seat won't be easy. Maybe I'll get drunk. Yes, I'll get drunk.

See you in ten days. I'll be back with a THOROUGH pictorial spread complete with captions and what not. I'm going to document the shit out of this trip. It's going to be one for the ages.