Newport

The efiw and I just got back from a few days in loverly Newport, RI, a town I have a lot of fond memories from many childhood visits to see fambly there back in the 1980s. I don't have much affinity for New England as a general tourism destination, but I have to admit that Rhode Island has always done it for me. I dunno -- probably too much nostalgia.

Seeing as to how I've just recently allowed myself to be swallowed whole like some kind of modern day Jonah of the capitalistic workplace by a metaphorical whale of the mercantile system, there has never been a four-day furlough that the Salad has sucked more hungrily at for its delicious marrow and sweet, sweet corpuscles.

We started out by taking the cross-sound ferry from Long Island (which is descended etymologically from the Pequot Indian word for "spit of land consisting of a long length") to New London, Connecticut.


By the way, Connecticut has as much to offer mankind as Ohio and a lobster fork in the tear duct. Sorry, Constitution-Staters.

There was a handy safety guide on the boat about the proper way to affix a life preserver to one's self, as directed by a pudgy, unhappy lad.


Once in Newport, we saw the famed mansions of the damned bastard plutocrat robber-barons, especially the dazzling Vanderbilt-hewn "Breakers."


There was plenty of encouragement to be found from the locals.


We were accompanied by a Marquez-ian swarm of butterflies wherever we went, which was only weird until Janice got cholera, which finally made sense.


We stopped by Kingston Beach, just south of the wharf area, to visit the Marquis de Rochambeau's pointy statue.


I took the opportunity to make short work of this stone wall with my prodigious strength and naturally leathery exterior.


When night came, the twinkling lights that I recalled from past visits came to play.


My favorite feature in town is the reliable Pell Newport Bridge, which was the largest landmark in my early consciousness until I finally got out of the damn house and saw bigger things.


Now that we're back home, it's time to get back to doing what I do best -- nurse a bottle of brandy as I soak my pillow with tears of resentment and disappointment.