Gail was no fool.
She allowed her day to be ruined neither by the unexpected foray into insectistentialism, gutter-quality tequila, polyester costuming nor Bob's sudden departure.
She was in New Mexico, dammit, and she was gonna do it right.
"What is WRONG with these people!" she marveled, "I mean, come ON:
Bob: trudging despondent & alone across the New Mexican desert
Ellie: hungover in mosquito-infested Belize
Steve: tumbling in fake wings across a windy Arizona golf course
Ken: weeping in the Olds--something about "No more Ellie cider..."
Sheila: spouting toxic prose naked & sunburnt under a large cactus
Me: basking in a natural hot spring watching the sun rise."
Non-drummers were such an overemotional, melodramatic lot, she mused fondly.
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