It's a Party

The Wellington 7's came to town. The Superbowl passed through. The girls had a simultaneous birthday. This town is absolutely buzzing and beautiful. We're trying to keep up. We're trying to stay on our feet.

The 7's were a mix of a San Francisco Castro Halloween, a New York New Years, and an Amsterdam vacation... with a bit of the World Cup thrown in. People were stumbling over car hoods, dropping their flags meant to be dresses, and walking through town in their underwear. Everywhere. Check out this account.

It's too nuts to keep up. The place was a circus show. It IS a circus show. We've got beautiful days on the beach followed by nights trying to avoid the gang of bikers with handlebars attached to their pelvises.

So Wellington keeps its promise to us and we're content. It's a good show. So long as we've got the Superbowl on the telly, the girls in bikinis on the streets, and the locals in the over-the-shoulder thongs, we can say we're having a decent time. Struggle though we might through the clear skies, the windswept clouds, and the bronzed beauties, we're going to make as much of a go of it as we can. It's a continuous struggle against entropy.

So maybe we're enjoying a minute or two of this dull, lifeless, fluorescent light-bulb life. But it's not easy. We've got bills, we've got jobs, we've got commitments. We're serious adults here. So what if it's our job to police and serve alcohol to half-naked girls and men dressed as nurses? We gotta make a buck, right? Rough life. We can't wait till we're tied up in neck-tie nooses and black corporate-suits. Free life in the South Pacific is miserable. So we'll do what we can. Men can only hope for so much.