It was going to be beautiful. A cross-country road trip. Restaurant with strange misspellings of French words. Gothic wrought-iron nightclubs that played 80s pop hits. Accidentally offending German tourists. Losing a $2000 diamond in a bag of toiletries. The world's biggest blueberry.
And yet, in spite of such strange and wonderful inspirations... there was no blogging.
A more rational man might point out that upon the week of my return, I bought a PlayStation 2 and Persona 3, and that the "total time played" counter in that game tells me no lies and does me no favours. But I think there's another answer here.
New York City stole my blogging mojo.
That must have been it. So much to see, and yet so little of it that didn't look "just like New York City". Behold the final, cruel achievement of rout entertainment industry: the city's soul has been laid bare, by anyone with a Netflix account.
(And that goes double for you, Sesame Street.)
The solution is obvious, though. America stole my mojo; I have to go get it back. And if there's one place in the U.S.A., if not the world, where you can find mojo, it's San Francisco. But how can I navigate such a maze of cultural energy? I'll need a guide. A link to the life I knew, and a door to the world beyond. Who could serve such a role?
If you said The Tragically Hip, then you just guessed where I'll be on Saturday night.
I shall return on Tuesday. And I shall return... with MOJO.